


Interdimensional Beach

by orphan_account



Series: Miami Bound [1]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, C-137 Rick and Morty at some point, Dancing, Drugs, Established Relationship, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Morty loses his stutter kind of, Original Character(s), Overdosing, Smut, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Suicide Attempt (implied), Tattoos, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-05-28 05:11:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 34,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15041474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In another life, Morty moves in with Rick in Miami to finish high school. His strip club owning, mafia adjacent grandfather proceeds to turn his life upside down.





	1. Chapter 1

The office is small and drab; the light coming from the ceiling is unbearably bright. Principal Dicks has her eyes trained on Morty, who’s sitting across from her nearly cowering under the woman’s critical gaze. He’s absently gripping the nylon fabric of his seat to stop himself from fidgeting. On the principal’s desk are thick stacks of paper splayed out in front of her, and on a few stolen glances, Morty notices a some fleeting phrases on what he knows are his academic files. Things, like ‘At Risk’ and ‘Misconduct’ jump out at him, and it lets him know what’s coming next. 

Principal Dicks pushes a strand of gray hair from her forehead and shifts slightly in her seat as she begins to speak. 

“Morty, are you aware that so far you have only attended twenty of the one-hundred eighty days of the school year?” 

Morty stays silent. She continues. 

“And not just that, you’ve gotten suspended multiple times already for violating dress code, skipping class when you do show up, and for sexual misconduct.”

Morty tries not to blush thinking about the latter. All of the times at the bottom of the stairwell, under the bleachers, and in the locker room–oh, yes, that locker room one with the swim team captain was hot, even if he did call him a slut and threatened to ruin Morty if he told anyone. He willed himself to think about something else before all the blood rushed south, schooling his expression into feigned interest. 

“And when I try to call your grandfather to have some kind of discussion about what’s going on I can never reach him. In fact, the contact information is almost all blank. Under your grandfather’s name is a phone number for a stripclub called Blips and Chicks, and this is bizzare to us because when your records transferred from out of state your previous school assured us your mother was your contact. How it’s possible that your records changed somehow between then and now makes no sense to us Morty.”

Morty swears internally. 

Fucking Rick. 

Of course he would do this to him. 

“Maybe he just wrote down the wrong phone number, y–y–y’know? Just one, just one wrong number, and, and bam you’re suddenly calling Blips and Chicks…” He laughs nervously as he says it, knowing the joke doesn’t land anywhere near the Principal's humorless gaze. 

Morty’s mostly gotten over his stutter, but he falls back into it when he’s nervous, like now. 

(Or when he’s having sex with Rick.) 

She sighs with a hint of annoyance, raising her hands to rub circles into her tired eyes. 

“You know what I really don’t understand Morty? Is how you had a clean record when you transferred here and above average grades. Sure, it’s not like you were in AP Calculus or anything, but you were doing pretty well. What happened?” Her eyebrows knit together in frustratioin. She leans in closer, looking worried now. 

“Look, this can be between you and me. Is everything alright at home?” She hesitates as if choosing her words carefully, then asks: “Does your grandfather treat you well?”

Morty knows what she’s trying to get at, and is quick to make a hasty reply. “H–he treats me fine!” 

“Is he around enough to help you with homework?” 

“He is but, I–I just don’t ask for help that much.”

“Why is that Morty?” 

Morty shrugs, and his nonchalance doesn’t go over well with her. She shakes her head in disappointment. 

“Well, maybe you should’ve asked for help when you had the chance. Hold on a moment Morty I have to get you some paperwork…” As she says this she leans down and reaches for something underneath her desk.

As Morty watches her, a sudden flood of memories come rushing through his mind. 

Morty pushing Rick down on the edge of his bed, as soon as Rick’s back hits the mattress Morty’s homework slides off the sheets in a flutter onto the carpet, quickly forgotten in favor of yanking Rick’s pants down–

And then there was that other time Rick actually tried to help him, but it was in the middle of sex. 

(It’s a bit too long to recall in a flashback, but it goes a little like this: 

One afternoon they’ve somehow ended up on the kitchen floor, Rick bruising Morty’s hip with one hand and the other hand hitching Morty’s leg over his shoulder so he can push in deeper. Morty’s trying to ignore the feeling of his shoulder blades smashed against the tile as he blissfully looks down at the body glitter rubbing off onto Rick’s abdomen, and Rick’s now dragging his fingers through Morty’s long, platinum hair. Morty’s a mess on the floor–moaning, panting, out of his mind.

And that’s when things go south. 

Rick looks at Morty like he’s just remembered something, and says: 

“Hey–hey Morty, so, uh, that math homework you needed help with the other day. I got.. I got the answERGHr for you.” Rick’s voice is strained, still thrusting into Morty, but for the moment not as vigorously. 

Morty’s stunned, nearly to the point where he stops grinding his hips. 

“What?! Why now?” He yelps. 

“Be–because Morty, this the only time I have.” Rick grits out adamantly. 

He picks up the pace again and starts bucking his hips with renewed force.

“Alright–are you, URP, you listening Morty?” 

Rick starts to jerk him off. Morty can barely handle it. 

“I guess! But I’m gonna co–“ 

Rick steamrolls over Morty’s warning and carries on rambling, cutting him off. 

“Okay, so x equals the rate of the speed of the train… So that means you divide pi and the cosine of the trajectory, and alpha...”

He punctuates some of his words with particularly hard thrusts, and Morty lets out a sharp cry in response. 

“Carry over the y and the 3–and then… oh god, Morty, you’re so fucking tight... Y–you get the square root of pi over some mixed numbers, which that part I’m sure even s–someone like you could figure out. And that’s, that’s your answer… Did you get all that Morty?”

But Morty’s been looking down at his own dick, half listening, half wondering how long he could last. When Rick notices he’s not paying attention to him, he yanks Morty’s hair back so his head tilts back harshly and their eyes meet. 

“Answer me Morty, d–did you get that? I’m not going to repeat myself.” 

“No!” Morty cries out, and Rick is still ramming into him like it’s nothing. 

“That’s too bad, don’t come crying to me when you fail your stupid little test then...” 

Rick’s hips start stuttering, losing their rhythm. He’s close. 

“Fuck you Rick, just–just f–fuck you! I’m definitely going to fail tomorrow!” Morty’s yelling now, and he can’t believe he’s managed to become so furious and aroused at the same time.

“Well excuu–uuse me Morty for trying to m–multitask!” Rick punctuates his statement with a few quicker strokes on Morty’s dick.

“Fuck!” Morty shouts for all he’s worth, and then he comes.) 

If only the principal knew. 

Principal Dicks straightens in her desk, she’s now holding a sheet of paper in her hand, sliding it towards Morty. 

The title read ‘Notice of Expulsion Hearing.’ Morty’s stomach dropped as soon as he read it. 

“Look, I wish I didn’t have to do this, but the administration has scheduled a hearing for your expulsion, we’ve given you some time so you can coordinate with your grandfather to come. It’ll look much better if he’s there.” Her tone is softer, and she’s still giving him that apologetic look.

She starts telling Morty something about getting him counseling, and resources, and he knows it’s not supposed faze him because he’s done things like kill a man, he’s trafficked drugs, he’s lived more of life than kids at his age could ever hope to. And yet, seeing the only shred of teenage normalcy he had left fizzle away right in front of him hurts somehow. 

He’s surprised at himself that he feels this way. He hates school, after all. Or at least he thought he did. 

When Principal Dicks leads him out her office, with some meaningless “goodbye and take care of yourself” speech, Morty’s just a little bit dumbfounded and entirely overwhelmed. 

When he leaves the school, he catches the bus to the beach. 

He feels the sun’s sweltering rays bearing down on him, but the sky is clear and it’s a weekday so there aren’t many tourists–just the way he likes it. He avoids his usual spot of laying next to the lifeguard post because he’s not in the mood to flirt. He opens his book bag and lays out a beach towel. He shimmies out of his tight, ripped jeans and crop top, realizing belatedly that he probably should’ve gotten written up for dress code violations that day, but he figures since he’s getting expelled the school just didn’t bother. 

He sighs, resting his head on his book bag, stuffing a lollipop in his mouth. He notices through his pink mirrored aviators a pair of European tourists walk by in speedos. He knows South Beach isn’t frequented as much by locals, but he loves to see and be seen. He likes the way the European tourists steal an appraising glance at him, but keep walking. He needs a little pick me up after today. 

There’s no way he’s not getting expelled, and there’s no way Rick would show up to his hearing, and if he did show up he wouldn’t get it together enough to help Morty’s case. He also knows Rick couldn’t be bothered to re–enroll him into another school, which would be more difficult now that he’s being expelled. 

He starts to think about what his future will be like now, as a high school drop out, and the possibilities seem vastly grim to him. He figures he couldn’t make a long, stable career out of knowing how to cut cocaine, or how to handle a gun, or how to launder money, or basically anything else that’s considered illegal that Rick has taught him. 

Rick would disagree. 

He tries to clear his mind, sifting his manicured fingers through the sand absentmindedly, feeling the white grains slide down his hands. Eventually he falls asleep to the sound of seagulls and ocean waves foaming at the shore. 

He starts dreaming about his school back in Washington, and it all feels like a hazy memory, soft around the edges. The halls lined with lockers, he remembers them, but it feels like a lifetime ago. He walks to his science class and sits down; he can vaguely hear someone call him a “fucking faggot” from across the room. He looks down and he realizes he’s wearing his favorite rainbow colored camisole from that time, and the flamboyance of it is what probably motivated the insult. He looks over at the kid who said the slur, and notices Beth and Summer sitting beside him, and he can’t help but smile because he’s elated to see them. His cellphone starts to ring in his pocket, and he’s confused that the ringer isn’t turned off, and the teacher is yelling at him to shut it down, and as much as he presses the off button it keeps ringing. 

He feels the fabric of his beach towel shift against his chest as he wakes up to see that Rick is calling him on his cellphone. 

When he picks it up Rick starts talking right away. 

“H–hey Morty, I’m at the beach, come to the UGGHHPPP ice cream place. I’m picking you up, I need your help with something.”

“Fine.” Morty reluctantly agrees and hangs up. 

When he gets to Rick’s car, he’s immediately annoyed by the sight of him. Rick’s his usual pink sunglasses clad, pastel jacket wearing self, but he’s plastered beyond his usual level of drunkenness. 

“Get out of the driver’s seat Rick! I’m driving.” Morty commands, getting progressively more exasperated with each passing moment. 

“Wooooaahoh, what’s gotten into you Morty? Did you get s–s–sand stuck up your asshole again or something?” Rick questions sarcastically.

“Get out.” Morty demands. 

“Ay carajo, fine whatever Morty.” Rick mutters, thankfully stepping out of the car and tossing his keys to Morty. 

“Where are we going?” 

“Scarlett’s Morty, we’re going to Scarlett’s.” 

Rick fidgets with the toothpick in his mouth, his elbow resting on the nook where the window and top edge of the car door meet. He’s clearly a little miffed that Morty’s driving but too drunk to put up a real fight. 

Morty grips the steering wheel, gritting his teeth.

“For fuck’s sake Rick, it’s two in the afternoon!” 

Rick rolls his eyes, then drapes an arm around Morty, smirking, the smell of alcohol wafting from his breath. 

“Look Morty, you’re gonna like this. Th–th–this guy I’m selling to, he’s hilarious looking. He looks like someone smashed a papaya and a cuban sandwich together. And besides, those cabrones always like seeing you s–so you have to be there anyways.”

Morty fights the urge to walk out of the car, Rick’s always showed him off at his business dealings like some shiny new toy and he usually puts up with it, but he’s not in the mood for it right now. Though, something inside him decides to give in for now and play along instead.

“Geez Rick, who would ever do that to a cuban sandwich?” He exclaims, a little high pitched so it gets Rick going. 

“Right? If God exists he’s one cruel motherfucking BRRRP biootch!” 

They both laugh then, and for a second Morty forgets he’s angry, but as the silence settles between them he finds himself sighing internally. 

Rick leans forward to turn the radio on, and Morty catches a strong whiff of alcohol again.

“Oh shit, you reek!” Morty exclaims, suddenly comprehending just how much Rick has been drinking today, of all days. 

“I’m sorry that Patrón isn’t URP a perfume Morty.” 

“Did you have to go so overboard with it?” 

“Sometimes y–y–you just gotta let loose, you would know how to do that Morty if you weren’t such an uptight–uptight little ass about everything.” 

“God whatever Rick.” Morty mutters, thinking to himself that Rick should be grateful he’s saving him from another DUI. 

Later when they pull up to Scarlett’s, Rick instructs him to park by the back door. Morty knows some of the strippers here, some of them having danced at Rick’s clubs at some point or another. 

A woman who goes by the name Veronica is smoking by the door and watches them as they pass by.

She acknowledges Rick with a friendly look, but it’s Morty who makes smile. Most of the strippers that Morty’s met in Miami have taken a liking to him for some reason, maybe because he’s young and still looks like he has some innocence left in him.

“How’s it going Morty baby?” she asks. 

Morty tells her he’s great. It’s a lie, but it’s hard not to be pleasant with her. 

She nods, and they walk into the building through a heavy door that blends in perfectly with the wall. There’s a group of older men sitting around a long wooden table in a heap of cigar smoke, and it’s as stereotypical as it sounds.

“Muchachos!” Rick yells, booming, and everyone turns around to greet him. 

Morty gets a good look at the guy who definitely appears to be what Rick mentioned earlier in the car. Rick’s description is spot on, and it takes everything in Morty not to burst out laughing. Rick senses Morty tense up and whispers “I was fucking right, wasn’t I?” so only Morty can hear, and Morty nods, biting his lip. Rick goes to sit at the end of the table.

Of course, the man would grab for Morty as soon as Morty crossed his vicinity, burying his creepy face and hands into Morty’s hair.

“You smell like the beach baby.” The man says smarmily. 

Morty feels like flinching away from him, but he’s used to this kind of thing, so instead he says:  
“You like it? I was just there.” he purrs. 

“Oh really? Wish I had been there too. Why don’t you sit your tight little ass on my lap, huh?”

Rick’s whips his head around, staring daggers into both of them. “Morty, weren’t you going to sit next to me today?” 

Morty usually sticks by Rick every time he drags him to these things, and he’s not sure what to do now, since the guy still has a hand on his hair. 

The man then draws a gun from under the table and casually points it at Rick. Everyone at the table watches intently as the scene unfolds.

“I think he’ll be with me right now, Sanchez. Don’t you want to baby?” The man doesn’t take his eyes off Rick. 

“It’s fine with m–me.” Morty says, smiling nervously and reluctantly sitting on the man’s lap. 

Rick scoffs.

“Okay, whatever. I’ve got a gun too, you know. But let’s just, let’s just BRRRP get on with it.” 

Morty’s a little bewildered that Rick caved that easily, and it manages to add to his ongoing frustration. The meeting drags on and Morty feels like the day just won’t go by fast enough. He longs for the times when Rick doling out kilos of cocaine onto a table from a duffle bag thrilled him, but as he looks on he just feels bored now.

The smarmy papaya faced man isn’t making things any better. Occasionally, he plays with Morty’s belly button piercing using his free hand below the table, and the area there is sensitive. Morty stifles unbidden whimpers and yelps as much as he can, but he can’t help himself. He detests everything about it; the way Rick looks at him with flashes of jealous anger while the other men smirk knowingly, thinking Morty’s enjoying himself. At some point he’s practically sitting on the guy’s erection and he wants to tear himself away but the guy’s resting his hand on his gun and Morty just suffers through it. 

By the time it’s over, Morty’s mentally exhausted and he just wants to go home and take a long nap. 

When they’re out of the building, Rick grips Morty by his upper arm and grits in his ear: “Looks like you were enjoying yourself over there, h–huh Morty? You’ll get it up for anyone now will you?” 

Morty sneers at Rick, narrowing his eyes. “He was fucking around with my navel ring you asshole. A–a–and thanks for the sympathy by the way, I definitely wasn’t being sexually harassed back there!” 

Rick rolls his eyes. “Uh huh, sure. Whatever URP you say.” 

Morty slams open the driver’s side door, turning up the radio as high as he can handle. He ignores all requests from Rick to turn it down, having switched on some kind of safety feature that locks in the volume button preventing Rick from turn it down it himself. 

When they get home Morty chucks the keys at Rick’s chest, trudging through the lawn into Rick’s cavernous mansion. 

He kicks empty liquor bottles strewn across the floor away from his path, slamming them against the walls with force. 

He finds his room and falls into a dreamless sleep. 

 

Later that night when he wakes up it’s night time, the clock reads ten thirty. He changes clothes, slipping into his favorite leopard print jacket and some cut off jean shorts that show off so much of his ass they might as well be underwear. 

He leaves the house and catches an uber without bothering to tell Rick where he’s going. The latter is probably slumped over a table in the garage, passed out in the middle of cooking up some kind of new, hard drug that he can push out into the market. 

His driver tries making eyes at him from the rear view mirror and Morty’s having none of it, giving the man a scathing look that causes the man to avert his gaze nervously. Morty smirks to himself, pleased that he’s in control of anything for once. 

When Morty gets to the club, he makes a beeline to the bar and it takes no less than thirty seconds before the bartender is sliding a shot glass filled with vodka in front of him. A buff blonde guy nods at him from across the bar, smiling. Morty winks at him and then asks the bartender for a few more shots. 

The blonde man gets up and Morty follows him to the dance floor, weaving through the cluster of limbs and sweaty bodies. 

The man grabs his hips with heavy hands and Morty sways into him, moving with the thumping beat of the music. They dance that way for a while, until the man starts getting a little handsy and Morty’s not drunk enough for that yet. 

“I’ll be right back.” Morty yells over the music. Before the man can stop him Morty makes his way toward the bar.

Morty orders another round of shots on the guy’s tab and downs them quickly. 

“Someone wants to get drunk tonight.” 

Morty looks around, and when he turns to his right he locks into a familiar pair of eyes and is surprised to see Rick sitting next to him, casually sipping on a Cuba Libre. 

Morty sighs exasperatedly, and asks: “What do you want Rick?”

Rick leers at him. “W–w–whatever that blond guy got back there.” 

Morty shakes his head in disbelief, and gets up to leave. Rick grabs his wrist and tells him to wait. 

“Listen Morty, I actually came here to tell you that I know what happened over at Scarlett’s was shitty, and I’m going to make it up to you tomorrow. You're going to have the best BRRRRURP birthday Morty. I got something planned for us, it’s going to be, it’ll be the best birthday.” 

Morty’s eyes go wide at the realization that he’d forgotten that his seventeenth birthday was the next day. It’s the cherry on top of his fucked up day and yet it’s still not over. He’s never spent a birthday with Rick, and he’s not sure how to feel about what he says. He doesn’t trust him to care enough to plan something out for his birthday, so he figures that he’s bluffing. 

Morty looks him up and down and decides that it’ll be a good enough birthday present for him if he can get Rick back at least once for fucking everything up for him. 

“Mhm sure Rick, I kinda wanna dance right now though.” He says sweetly. 

Morty reaches for Rick’s arm, guiding him to the dancefloor. Rick throws him a skeptical look, but doesn’t say anything, and allows himself to be dragged along to the center of the floor. 

Rick glides his hands down Morty’s waist. Morty’s ass is in the cradle of Rick’s hips, and he’s pushing back hard, rocking with Rick’s movements. 

“Your ass is so fucking perfect Morty.” Rick says, and Morty leans his head back into Rick’s shoulder, panting. He’s drunk. They’re both drunk.

“Look at you, so needy.” Rick says, knowing what it does to Morty, making him feel shameless and easy. 

Morty abruptly turns around and puts his arms around Rick’s neck, leaning up to rake his teeth down the column of Rick’s neck, making him shudder. 

“Fuck.” Rick breathes, and Morty stays silent, but he lifts his thigh into Rick’s hard-on, brushing against it vigorously, the friction feels perfect against the line of Rick’s length. 

“God.” He gasps, and draws Morty in for a sloppy, open mouthed kiss.

“Looks like you’re going to come in your pants, Rick.” Morty says when he breaks away, still grinding his thigh between Rick’s legs. 

Rick realizes his game too late–all the blood is rushing south and heat is pooling his stomach, feeling like he’s going to let go any minute. 

“Now look who’s needy.” Morty whispers in Rick’s ear. 

“Jesus.” Rick mutters, eyes squeezing shut, Morty increases his pace, going harder, and Rick comes. 

“Fuck, fuck.” Rick pants, shivering through it, ruining his briefs, that asshole–

“Hope you got what you wanted.” he hears dimly through the ringing in his ears, and Morty yanks away from him, looking very content with himself, striding back towards the bar, leaving Rick with wet spreading all over his crotch. 

Rick swears under his breath, trying discretely to find his way to the bathroom. He does his best to scrub the stain away but there’s no use. 

“F–f–fucking tease.” He mumbles, cursing himself for being naive in the moment. 

A few minutes later, when he bangs out of the bathroom, Morty’s making out with the blond guy from before, the guy’s enthusiastically squeezing his butt. 

“C–come on Morty, let’s go home.” Rick says jerking Morty’s arm. Morty moves away and slurs, “I don’t fucking know you.” 

“Yeah man, fuck off.” The guy barks out. Rick rolls his eyes. 

“Morty, quit your BRRRP bullshit. We’re fucking leaving.” 

“Looks like he’s good right here with me.” The guy says, and Morty smiles slyly at Rick. 

“You know he’s sixteen, r–r–right?” Rick asks, and Morty sneers untangling himself from the man. 

“I’ll kick that guy’s ass for you.” The guy offers threateningly, and Morty shakes his head.

“Don’t worry about it.” Morty says, and he laughs, walking away from the two of them. 

It takes a second for Rick to realize he’s gone, and then he’s running to catch up with him once more.

He’s breathless by the time he reaches Morty, who’s standing right outside the club waiting for him. Rick takes a moment to compose himself.

“You think you’re slick Morty, don’t you?” Rick says as they walk to the car. 

“Hmm, maybe I should’ve stayed with him.” 

“You have a better time with me, Morty.” Rick says simply, and Morty has the nerve to laugh.

“Funny,” he says. “Unlock the fucking car.” 

Rick narrows his eyes at him. 

“N–n–no Morty, not until you tell me what’s wrong. You’re usually not this URP bitchty.”

Morty pauses for a second, about to say something cruel again. But he stops himself. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He feels his guard coming down, and he’s tired from being so on edge. 

He crosses his arms in front of his chest, leaning back against the passenger door, the hot metal clings to his skin. 

“I got expelled today at school. Well, not yet, but they’re going to.” He admits. 

Rick’s expressions softens for just a second, and then he’s back to being unamused.

“High school is a pretty useless concept, I thought you understood that. I mean, you were barely there.”

“Yeah, only because you kept showing up to school and pulling me out of class!” 

Rick scoffs, unlocking the car and they both climb in. 

“Oh whatever Morty, I run a complicated criminal network, that’s more important than knowing who the twelfth president is–or how to, or how to solve the quadratic eERPquation.” He says. 

Morty realizes he doesn’t actually remember who any of the presidents are, except for the current one, plus some obvious ones, and he definitely doesn’t know how to solve the quadratic equation and it bothers him. 

“But maybe I would know stuff like that if I was actually in school!” Morty proclaims as he puts on his seatbelt. 

“Don’t you worry, by the time we celebrate your birthday, you’ll be so coked out you’ll forget what school even is Morty. I made a new formula l–l–last night that’s so good it’ll send you to the next dimension.” 

Right now, Morty’s not sure if he likes the sound of that. He knows though by tomorrow he’ll probably be begging for it like a drowning man struggling for air. Rick’s stuff is good like that. 

He gazes out the window distantly, wondering how he even made it to his seventeenth birthday.

 

The next day Morty wakes up at noon with two missed calls on his cellphone. One from Beth, the other from Summer. He calls Beth first, who greets him with the kind of nice, motherly tone that makes him feel like he’s back home. She wishes him happy birthday, and they both say how much they miss each other. 

“Morty, how’s school?” She asks.

“Uhh, it’s school, y–y’know?” He stammers nervously, hoping she won't notice it. 

“Is Rick helping you with your homework still?”

“Yeah.” Morty knows it’s far from the truth, but Beth doesn’t need to know. 

“Oh good! So I have some great news Morty. I got a part time job as a secretary at a vet clinic, and I think I’m ready for it. I miss doing equine surgery, but this is good enough I guess. Of course, it’s not enough to, you know, get you back up here, but you know with my accident and everything–”

“I know mom. It’s okay.” Morty reassures her. 

She tells him more about what’s been going on in Washington, and about Summer, and Morty’s probably going to hear it again later from Summer herself. He picks at his nail polish as he listens to the soothing sound of her voice. 

The conversation ends with Morty promising to call her again later. When he phones Summer, he can hear her friends laughing distantly on the other end. They all wish him a happy birthday, and Summer tells him how jealous she is of his outfits on instagram. Morty rolls his eyes and listens to her go on about guys and new kids at their school. She catches him up to all the high school drama, but Morty can’t be bothered to care; it’s all a blur to him. Eventually, when the conversation dies down, they exchange goodbyes. 

Later that night, Rick takes him out on the town. Apparently, he got the owner of one of the best clubs in Miami to rent it out to him for the night. Or at least that’s what he tells Morty, but Morty knows Rick probably doesn’t just use one of his own clubs because doesn’t want to miss out on cash flow. He invites some of his associates, strippers, and Morty’s friends. When everyone’s together, Morty comes to the realization that all of his friends are either strippers or bartenders, and the knowledge is a little startling at first, but he doesn’t let it bother him. They’re nothing like the kids back at his high school, no one calls him a faggot or makes fun of him. They’re older than him, sure, but they look out for one another. 

And they make him feel great. 

At some point, when he gets up on stage to dance with a few of his friends, everyone is cheering him on. His skin is buzzing, chest vibrating with the music, and he feels alive. 

Even though this is his first birthday without his family, he’s happy, and pleasantly surprised that Rick would do this for him. Maybe there is a caring bone in in the old man’s body after all.

When three a.m. hits, most of the club has emptied out. Morty finds Rick in the backroom, writing something on a piece of paper. 

“Oh, h–h–hey Morty, I’m just doing ol’ Scarface back there a quick favor before I, before I stop seeing straight. I just took some more of that thing I was telling you about last night, and fuck Morty, it’s strong.” 

Morty knows, he had taken some earlier and felt the same way, but Rick’s handling way better than he did. Rick can practically tolerate anything.

Morty makes a hum of acknowledgement and walks over to the metal pole at the far end of the room. Morty swings around on it leisurely, turning and doing a few simple tricks he’d learned from his friends. 

Then he gets an idea.

He takes a lollipop from his pocket and puts it in his mouth, because it helps him concentrate, and without much forethought he tries some moves that he’d seen before, but not all together in one dance. He lifts himself up the pole, and arches his back so that he is hanging on the rod with one leg, his platform heel dangling out in front of him as he’s contorted forward. He’d seen most dancers accomplish the move with two legs, but he’s light and lean, and can support his own weight with just one. He swivels his tongue around the candy, making a ‘pop’ sound, and he does a few quick flips, peppering in some more complicated movements as he comes down. 

He turns and sees Rick watching him with rapt attention, eyes transfixed on Morty. 

It’s the same look that Rick gave him almost a year ago when they had sex for the first time, taking Morty’s virginity and ruining him for anyone else. 

It’s dead silent for a moment, and for a quick second Morty’s scared Rick’s done too much blow, but then Rick puts his hands up in the air.

“Morty… that was amazing! Literally. Bravo.” Rick announces reverently. He rushes over to Morty, pushing him against the wall. He’s invaded in his space, eyes wild with excitement. 

“You should dance for me Morty. You know h–h–how many people would line up to see you do that. I’ll be raking in the money for BRRRP that right there.” 

Morty blushes, not used to his grandfather’s unabashed praise. 

“G–geez, I don’t know Rick…”Morty responds timidly.

“Oh come on Morty! This is great! We’ll call it ‘The Lollipop’, it’ll–it’ll be the best fucking thing on this side of Broward, and the, and the whole damn universe.” 

“C–c–can I think about it Rick?” 

Rick scowls at him disapprovingly, rolling his eyes. 

“Morty get your shit, we’re leaving. I need you to show you something important.” 

“What is it?”

“You’ll see.” 

Rick drives them to an abandoned building on an empty street corner on the far edge of town. The windows are broken and the sign is faded but one could barely make out the words ‘GALAXY’ in large letters. 

Rick gets out and sits on the hood of his car, and Morty gets on it with him, swaying a little as he pushes himself up. 

“Morty, this was my first club. I opened it when your mother was your age. And honestly, I’m surprised it’s still standing. Opening this club helped me learn one of the greatest lesson in the biz.” 

“What’s that?” Morty asks, interested. He briefly thinks of a younger Rick, looking up at the sign in wonder during opening night. He imagines Beth is there, standing with her arms crossed looking away bitterly, wondering why he brought her there. Maybe they had fought over it, since she’s always made her distaste for her father’s career well known. But Morty imagines Rick smiling, proud of himself, not aware that months later the whole thing would fail miserably. 

“The best strippers are hard to find Morty. Y–y’know, most people don’t appreciate what it takes to do those moves you did just now. Strippers, they’re basically smoking hot acrobats on a pole. But back then, I didn’t URP realize that, and I would hire anyone. Even single moms from Hialeah Morty. As long as you didn’t have stretch marks, it was cool with me. And I found out the hard way nobody wants that shit.”

He turns to Morty with an earnest look. “My clubs right now, they’re fucking great, but they could be even greater with you. I’ve seen all kinds of dance moves, but Morty, most girls aren’t as flexible or as creative as you could be. We could make so much money together, and you’re not just a good dancer, you help me with all my other shit too. It’s like when you walk in the room, it disarms people. You know what I mean, it’s like your brain waves–”

“offsets your conniving, genius ones, yes Rick, I’m aware.” Morty rolls his eyes as he says it. 

Rick grabs the fur of Morty’s coat, and says, “I’m being serious Morty. I think you should strongly consider this.” 

And Morty does. As he looks at the graffitti plastered on the dilapidated walls, he thinks about where his life is at, making a mental checklist: He’s been expelled from high school. All his friends are strippers. He has no job, but he has the skills that Rick taught him. And he’s apparently a good dancer. 

“You know what Rick... Yes. I’ll be your dancer.” And it feels good when he says it; it sounds right. 

Rick throws his hands up, and exclaims, “Fuck yeah Morty! The UGHHHPPP 305 doesn’t know what’s coming for it!” Rick pulls him in for a quick kiss, and Morty’s smiling against his lips. 

They sit together for a moment, basking in the afterglow of their excitement. 

“You ready to keep partying Morty?” Rick says after a while. 

“Mhmm.” Morty replies, a little dazed. As if all the drugs and the alcohol he’s been doing have finally caught up to him. 

They go back inside the car.

And they look at each other then, gazing into one another’s eyes for a brief moment. 

Rick tips Morty’s head up to kiss him again, and Morty’s lips are already parted. He lets Rick have what he wants, effortlessly letting him deepen the kiss until he hears the click of Rick’s keys turning in the ignition. When the car engine starts to rumble, he breaks away from him.

Rick doesn’t even need to say anything then, Morty knows what to do when Rick reaches out for his hand and Morty slides over to him, easily, and he’s small and slender enough to slot himself perfectly on his lap. Rick rests his jaw on Morty’s hair and places a firm hand on Morty’s thigh; he can feel its warmth resting on his shimmering skin. 

Rick leaves the top down of the car as he drives, the warm air rippling through them as they go. Morty turns his body to wrap himself around him, face in the crook of Rick’s neck.

Buildings and street lights blur past them. When they get to downtown, the neon signs flood the car with vibrant hues. 

Everything feels like it’s mixing together, clashing in Morty’s vision like meteors bursting in space. 

He closes his eyes, eyelashes flickering against Rick’s skin. He feels like he’s floating, imagining himself drifting through the atmosphere, traveling through dimensions.

He’s going higher, and higher, and it’s the highest he’s ever been and it feels glorious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a cool song that inspired most of this chapter:  
> https://open.spotify.com/track/0y60itmpH0aPKsFiGxmtnh?si=tfbygGEhQp6dOuWhjo2yTA
> 
> Apologies for any typos in this, no beta. 
> 
> Should have another update in 2-3 weeks.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of rape in this chapter that only involves OCs.

The white, curvilinear building at the heart of Miami Beach is unmistakable set against the evening sunset. Tourists shuffle across the bow tie patterned tile of its lobby, passing under spherical chandeliers that shimmer under fluorescent lighting. It’s a relatively uneventful weekend at the Fontainebleau hotel, but it’s the height of tourist season and a perfect night to go out on the town. Guests flow into the check in line, all in single file. They’re identical with their flip flops, sunburns and brightly colored swimwear, ready to change into more party appropriate attire.

One of them, however, has no intentions of partying tonight. 

A man in a maintenance uniform approaches the check in counter. He’s past his prime, but his figure is lean and taut, presumably from long years of manual labor. However, his hands and face lack any evidence of rough work. But nobody’s looking at him too closely, fortunately.

He leans over the counter, elbows resting on its marble surface and absently fiddles with a toothpick in his mouth.

“Hey there, name’s Julio. I’m here with FPL. Got a call about some electrical problems on some of the penthouse floors that need fixing.” The man says.

The woman at the counter nods knowingly.

“Alright. We’ve gotten the work order from your supervisor already, so you can get started right away. I’ll call someone to take you to the electrical room.”

Before she picks up the phone, the man says: 

“Wait–one of your service attendants already told me where it is. Mind if I just go with her? She’s sitting back there waiting for me.” 

The man points at a short woman with a deep tan sitting at the front of the lounge area, giving them a small wave. She’s wearing a petite white dress that appears to be the typical service uniform for the hotel; her blonde hair is arranged in a neat bun and set in an aqua blue headband.

“Oh. What’s her name?” The lady asks.

“Mor–, I think she said her name was Moira.”

“Oh right, Moira, looks like she took a long day off at the beach with that tan though.” The lady mutters to herself. “Well, okay sir, that’s fine.” She says, then continues tending to hotel guests.

“Thanks.” The man replies curtly, then goes to join the service woman.

“You ready for this shit, _Moira?_ ” The man draws out the syllables of the woman’s name, making her laugh.

“Why yes _Julio_ , those trust fund kids need to keep their Chardonnays cold!” She says, feigning a saccharin tone.

When the get the basement of the hotel, Julio pulls out a heavy wrench from his work bag and passes it to Moira, who’s casually leaning against the wall. 

“Gonna use that to finish it off, if you know what I mean.” Julio says, gesturing to the wrench.

He then pulls out some small devices from his bag and attaches it to two of the transformers on the wall. 

“Stand back.” He warns. Moira takes a step away from the machinery. 

He plucks an even smaller device from his pocket, and presses a button on it, triggering a slight explosion. Bits of metal shoot out in multiple directions. 

The pair instinctually shield their faces with their arms. 

Julio takes the hefty wrench from Moira, and smashes it against both transformers until they crash to the ground. 

“There. Now there’s no fucking chance anyone will be getting their power back in this bourgeois tourist trap.” He announces. “You brought the, the thing with the right food on it?” 

“Of course, everything for you Julio.” Moira beams, lifting the silver lid of the cloche platter that’s sitting beside her to prove her point.

He rolls his eyes.

“Jesus Christ you really do like role playing don’t you? Won't even, won’t even let me say your real na–“ 

“You just said like an hour ago that it turns you on! I bet if your clothes weren’t so loose we’d all see your hard-on.”

“You know what, people would be lucky to get a good look at _this_ handyman’s tool right here…” He comments salaciously as he climbs underneath the service tray with his work bag, hiding on top of a low rack concealed by table cloth that’s been draped over the entire cart. 

Moira ignores his comment in favor of pushing the the cart out of the doorway. She quickly dashes through the back of the hotel and around to the small service elevator that’s hidden away on the far side of the building, having been unaffected by the damage inflicted by Julio to the penthouse floor. 

When they get to the top floor, she makes her way down the hall and stops in front of one of the rooms.

“Room service.” She calls.

They wait there a while, silent. 

Finally, when the door opens, a dark haired man with thick eyebrows and a noticeably South American accent greets them in the doorway. He’s young and fit, tight muscles showing underneath his expensive bathrobe.

“You guys still doing room service with the power out?” He asks.

“Why else would I be here, sir?” Moira asks, a hint of sarcasm underneath her polite tone. 

“To keep me company.” He remarks as he looks her up and down lasciviously. 

“Oh yeah?” Moira responds flirtatiously.

“Why don’t you come in?” 

“Oh that’d be nice. Been working all day, could use a break.” 

“Sure thing honey. Name’s Manuel, by the way.” He says, stepping aside so she can walk through. 

The hotel suite is impressively spacious. In the near darkness Moira can tell that everything is pristinely modern, making it appear more like a high end condo. The tall, floor to ceiling windows show off colorful views of the city lights reflecting off the ocean. 

Moira sees a cross-faded group of men and women strung out on the sitting area, laughing amongst themselves. She can tell under the moon’s luminescence that they’re all wearing skimpy swimwear–one woman’s top has fallen off her shoulder, partially revealing her breast.

Manuel introduces her to the group.

“Hey guys, this is, uh…What’s your name?”

“Moira.” 

“Right. Moira’s got our food and she’ll be staying for a little while to have some fun with us.” 

One of the women points a wine glass at her, exclaiming:

“Mira eso, she looks like my cousin! Come over here!” The woman motions excitedly at Moira, and Moira makes her way to the couch, squeezing herself between her and another man. 

“Here baby, have some wine. It’s Chardonnay.” The man next to her says in a smooth tone, pouring her a glass. 

Moira takes it, sipping on it slowly. 

“Hey, you want some yayo too Moira? We got tons of it on the table.” Manuel says.

Moira agrees and leans down to snort the white line of powder on the glass. As she wipes her nose, she watches them closely as they divide the food amongst themselves. When they’re done, she gets up and walks to the tray.

“Oh, let me get this out of the way, it’s blocking the view.” 

“Great idea baby.” One of them says. 

She pushes the cart out of sight and into a corner by a small closet, secluded from view. 

Julio climbs out from his hiding place gingerly, standing up to stretch his legs. “Aw fuck, my knees.” He groans lowly. “You got a–any more of that yayo?” 

“No asshole, you’re practically covered in it twenty four seven, why would you need more?” 

“You know what, when this is over I’m gonna go home and bathe in it, _Moira._ ” His tone is acerbic as he reaches inside his work bag and pulls out a semi-automatic. He tosses a pistol to Moira, and she immediately pulls back the safety. 

They stroll over to the living area, firearms obscured by the night. 

“Oh, look who I found, it’s the maintenance man here to fix the power!” Moira announces, voice a few notes too high.

Manuel stands up abruptly from his spot on the couch.

“Wait, how the hell did he get in here?” He inquires disbelievingly.

“Through the door, retard.” Julio answers sarcastically, going to stand in front of the long row of glass windows. “Wow, this _is_ a nice view.” He mutters to himself, then turns to face them so that his body his backlit, some of his features catching the light behind him.

“If I had to die right now, it’d be to this view. W–wouldn’t you agree, _Manuel?_ ” He gives the man a sinister smile as he says it. 

Manuel regards him with an uncomfortable stare, the others shift awkwardly where they’re sitting, evidently thrown by Julio’s ominous cadence. 

“What did you say your name was?” 

“It’s Julio. But I also go by Rick. Anyway, I’m not here to fix the power, I’m here to fix something else actually. See, your father’s men who share my distribution down in Oaxaca have been overpricing my supply and skimming the profits for a while now. I thought your father would come clean, but he’s clearly got no cojones down there. You think you can let _daddy_ know I’m pissed off?” Julio, or Rick rather, explains, leisurely walking closer to the group.

“How does he know about that Manuel?” One of the women questions. 

A flash of recognition washes over Manuel’s face, and he starts backing away from Rick, who’s gaining on him. 

“It’s Rick Sanchez! Everyone get the fuck out!” He yells as he makes a break for the door. 

“Morty, don’t let him leave!” Rick demands.

Morty aims the gun and jerks his thumb down on the trigger, firing into Manuel’s thigh when he runs into the kitchen. The blast is silent, as both guns are outfitted with silencers. 

Manuel shouts out in agony, dropping to the ground. 

At the same time, Rick sprays bullets swiftly across the living area, killing all but two of Manuel’s friends.

One of the women tries to run in front of the glass; it’s a panicked, impulsive move that unwittingly traps her in Rick’s vicinity. 

He turns around and fires a few rounds in her direction, the force of which shatters the glass and causes her to trip onto the ledge. When she limps to her feet, Rick fires again and the force of it has her sailing off the ledge, plunging into the night air. 

A distant whimper makes Rick turn in the other direction. In a dark corner of the suite, the last remaining woman is crouched in the darkness, weeping and shaking quietly. 

Rick approaches her and grabs her roughly by the arm, forcing her to stand up.

“Please, I have nothing to do with this, I just met Manuel today at the beach I had no idea–”

“Do you think I’m that stupid? Manuel has been dating you for three fucking years and you were helping his dad fake his numbers.” 

Rick places his arm tightly around her chest, restraining her. The other he uses to press the tip of the rifle on her temple. 

He nudges her to walk forward until they’re in front of Manuel.

“Okay asshole, I know you’ve got a few mil in cash on hand right now that’s rightfully mine. Where is it?” Rick demands.

“Why? Don’t you make that much in a day?” Manuel bites out, holding his leg as he winces in anguish, blood quickly soaking the kitchen tile. 

Morty is steadily leveling his pistol at his face, preventing him from moving. 

“Maybe, but it’s the p–p–principle of the thing. Now, tell me where it is or you’re not gonna like what’s gonna happen to Miss Brazil 2018 over here.” Rick shoves the rifle harder onto Sophia’s temple to make his point. 

“No viejo, that money is mine now.” 

Rick shrugs. “Okay, you asked for it.” 

Rick stealthily drags the rifle down to Sophia's arm, blasting her left hand and severing it at the wrist. 

She howls and doubles over, but Rick holds her back. 

Blood sprays down the side of Morty’s white service dress and he steps away with a grimace. 

“No!” Manuel chokes out in horror. 

“Look ma’, n–no hands!” Rick exclaims, waving Sophia’s mauled arm around in morbid humor.

“Ok, ok! Fine. There’s a fake wall in the master bedroom closet. It’s behind there.” Manuel explains.

“Which master bedroom closet? There’s like six rooms in this fucking place.” Rick questions. 

“It’s the one with the blue furniture, go to the end of the living room, down the hall, to the right. Are we good now?” 

“Yep.” Rick answers.

He then shoots him between his eyes, ending him instantly. 

Sophia screams, pushing back against Rick, causing him to nearly lose his balance. 

“Woah there, don’t get so impatient, it’ll be your turn soon enough.” Rick assures her sardonically. 

“Why… Why do you do this?” She asks suddenly, her voice hoarse from her strangled sobbing.

“To, uh, protect myself. I’ve got a lot of assets.” Rick replies simply. 

“No, why do you really do it? How can you end someone’s life, so, so...” Her words devolve into unintelligible sobs, but Rick gets what she’s trying to say.

He studies her for a moment. Most people when they’re about to die by his hand beg to be spared. This is more interesting, however, so he’s willing to entertain her.

“That’s uh, that’s kind of a weird question to ask before you get killed… I don’t know. Why does it matter? Most people are expendable. They’re just cows blending into the herd, lined up for the slaughter.” 

“And–and what does that make you?”

“I’m URP indifferent.”

Rick pulls the trigger, and Sophia falls to the ground with a loud thump. 

The room is eerily still for a minute as they assess the grisly scene before them.

“Wow. That was fucked up Rick.” Morty says.

“What Morty? Do you mean the part about everyone in this fucking place having stolen from me, or the fact that, that nothing matters?” Rick questions, opening the fridge and pouring himself a glass of vodka, downing it straight. “Fuck…” He mutters, wincing.

“That last part. Do you really think that?” 

Rick scoffs. 

“Yeah, I do Morty, and you only have to know me for two seconds to see that. Now come on, let’s go get the cash before someone realizes Julio’s not fixing jack shit.” Rick grabs Morty’s arm and they find the money exactly where Manuel says it was.

When they walk back out to the living room, a flash of bright green light in the distant sky captures Morty’s attention. The orb disappears as soon as it comes, and something that looks like a flying saucer shoots out of it, but in the darkness it’s too difficult to discern what it is exactly. 

Morty tugs on Rick’s sleeve, pointing at the strange phenomenon, says, “Hey Rick–look!” 

Rick gazes out to where Morty is gesturing, and his eyebrows furrow in confusion. 

“Uh, think this coke must be damaging our brain cells if we’re seeing fucking UFOs Morty. Remind me to stop adding that dash of hallucinogenic shit in the mix.” He says as the aircraft disappears overhead. 

“What? You don’t think that’s real? I just saw it with my own eyes!” Morty responds, squinting to see if he can make out anything else.

“No Morty, that’s kind of how hallucinations work. Now let’s go we need to get out of here right now.” 

Morty cranes his head back as Rick pushes him away from where the window used to be, but the sky is just as empty as it was a minute ago. The teen shrugs off the occurrence for the time being, focusing instead on getting out.

Just before they exit, Rick pulls out a small can from his pocket and throws it onto the ground, quickly enveloping the room with smoke. 

“Check that out Morty, I made some the other day. It removes DNA. It’ll be like we were never here.”

Morty starts to cough forcefully, and Rick pulls him away from the smoke.

“Don’t inhale it you dumbass!” Rick yells as they jog back to the service elevator. 

“Sorry!” Morty squawks. His eyes sting so bad that his vision goes blurry; he wouldn’t be able to make it anywhere without Rick guiding him along.

Rick flicks a grenade onto the ground before they exit the elevator, completely blocking the chance of anyone getting in or out. And Rick’s already covered all his other bases–he made sure to fuse the locks in the stairwell and install a memory wiping device at the check in counter, all prior to the hit. Their getaway was more or less fool proof, and he may not admit it out loud, but internally he knows that despite his meticulous planning, it would be harder to stage a scheme of this caliber without Morty. Granted, he had his connections in the mafia and the cartels, but his grandson was ultimately devoid of any ulterior motives and thus easy to trust. At his best, he could catch on quickly to certain things too. For instance, he was good with a gun and had a more than decent aim. 

And Rick, not wanting to necessarily say exactly how much he appreciated the teen for his help, had come up with a better idea for how to demonstrate it instead. 

As soon as they’re inside the car, Rick peels out of the parking lot of the hotel. Morty takes off his white dress, showing off a more revealing leopard print mini which was thankfully unaffected by the gore absorbed by the service uniform. He tosses his hair tie, shaking out his bun, letting his long blond hair cascade down his shoulders.

Rick lets out a low whistle while he watches him in the rearview mirror. 

“Man, If I could fuck you right now I would but we’ve got one more stop. It’ll be like five minutes, I promise.” 

Morty crosses his arms, pouting a little. “Seriously? I think I’ve seen enough dead bodies today.” 

“This one’ll be worth it Morty, you’ll see.” 

Rick takes them to an unremarkable high end eatery in Brickell. Unremarkable because it’s merely one out of the many overpriced establishments in the area which all promise the same rare cuts and sugary cocktails. 

Before they go in, Rick takes off his jumpsuit. But not without a little difficulty in the cramped space of the car. Morty helps him out of it, and from the outside it probably looks like they’re about to have sex, and once again Rick wishes they were. He hopes that what will happen next will feel at least half as electrifying. 

When they approach the entrance, Rick bangs open the doors of the restaurant, Morty trailing behind him. 

People glance up at them as they go by, and they walk right past the hostess and into the dining area.

“Sir, you need reservations!” She yells, rushing after him. 

Rick turns around and grabs her by her collar.

“I won’t be long.” He growls, then shoves her to the side.

He comes to a large circular booth in a dark, secluded part the restaurant.

“Do you remember this freak, Morty?” He asks, taking a pistol out from inside his coat pocket, yanking the safety back and angling it at a burly man who’s sitting on the far right. 

His table mates are cowering in their seats, looking horrified. 

Morty nods. He recognizes the man as the papaya face guy who made him sit on his lap the week prior during one of Rick’s business deals. He had made Morty feel sick. 

“Hey Sanchez! What do you think you’re doing?” The man cries out hysterically. 

“What I should’ve done last week.” 

Rick then shoots the man squarely on the chest, and he immediately slumps over, coating his plate of foie gras in pools of blood. 

Everyone at the table gasps in shock. 

The guy is struggling to breathe, clinging on to his last shred of consciousness. 

“I’m the only one who gets to have Morty. Don’t you assholes BRPP forget that.” Rick declares fiercely as the man takes his last breath.

Morty is hanging onto Rick’s arm, a little taken aback by the whole thing.

Of course, he wanted the guy to suffer somehow, but he’s not sure if he deserved to die over it. But the way Rick lets everyone know Morty is his gives him a secret thrill that makes it nearly worth it. No one’s ever talked about him like that. Ever.

“Alright. That’s enough fun for tonight. Adios m–malditos.” 

Rick takes out a small circular grenade like device from his coat pocket and throws it on the ground. As they ditch the restaurant, the whole dining room becomes immersed in thick smoke. 

“Ah, gave em’ the ol’ razzle dazzle Morty. They’ll be drinking their fancy Champaign not knowing that they all just crossed paths with Rick Sanchez.” Rick says, pleased with himself.

“You gave them the confusion thing, uh, the mindalyzer?” 

“How many times do I have to tell you it’s called the Rickalyzer, a much more effective version of the Neuralyzer since it hits more than one person at a time, you got that?” 

“Yeah I guess.” Morty responds, sounding somewhat distracted.

“Okay listen Morty, I know that was kind of a lot back there, but he’s never going to touch–”

“Hey! That was my associate! We were about to make a deal together and you fucking killed him!” A tattooed, muscular man in a white guayabera exclaims, running at them from the entrance of the restaurant. 

For a split second, Rick is puzzled by the man’s sudden presence, but it dawns on him he’s somehow become immune to his technology, and the pair is fucked if they don’t leave right away. 

Rick, still holding his gun, fires it into the man’s shoulder. It makes him lurch forward, but in his determination to get to the two he stops himself from falling over. It gives them enough time to make it to the car and Rick floors it down the street, away from the restaurant. 

“Listen Morty, every few years, some asshole who thinks he’s some kind of hybrid scientist engineer catches wind of my technology. But as you’ll see, none of them survive.” Rick clarifies. 

After a few brief minutes, they’re waiting at a stop light when Morty starts to look frantically in Rick’s direction. 

“What Morty, what’s wrong? Oh shit, d–don’t URP tell me, is that asshole behind us?” Rick questions. 

“N-no, but almost…” Morty says, glancing behind them. 

The guy is just one car behind them, he’s conspicuous to say the least, riding in one of those oversized pickup trucks that seem too high to climb up into. Contrasted with Rick’s low convertible, it gives truck guy the upper hand with his gun, but Rick hopes his existing injury will impede him in some way. 

When the light turns green, Rick maneuvers in and out of traffic, trying to go as rapidly as he can and narrowly avoiding other cars in his way. As the truck closes in on them, Rick gets a wild idea that he knows will work. He makes the top of the car go down and instructs Morty to get on his shoulders so the teen can get a shot at the guy. 

“Are you crazy?” Morty shouts, terrified that Rick has miscalculated. 

“Probably, but look I’ll hold you down with my free hand. Just do it, I know you can.” 

As they race down the highway Morty slowly climbs sideways over to Rick, the latter guiding him along the way, passing him his automatic rifle. 

He presses his legs tightly around Rick’s neck, feeling like he’s going to tip over any moment, but Rick is correct, he indeed has a better aim. 

“Aw yeah Morty, we’re definitely fucking tonight!” Rick proclaims giving Morty’s ankle a quick squeeze as he swerves past a series of red lights. 

Morty’s about to retort when the guy fires in their direction, bullets flying across the backseat of the car. 

The teen can sense the panic rising in his throat, but he finds it in himself to push it down, a combination of anxiety and bravery helps him hone in on his moving target.

Morty gets the guy in the arm, causing him to skid into another lane and he nearly rear ends the car in front of him. 

“Fuck yes Morty!” Rick cheers.

“Can I get down now?” 

“Yeah, sure. I mean, you didn’t kill him, but getting him in his tribal tattoos was good enough I guess.” 

But Rick spoke too soon, and the truck is right behind them again.

“Oh motherfuck!” Rick snarls, slamming on the gas once more. 

He spots a grassy median lined with palm trees and decides to cut across it, tires screeching as he turns the car sharply. The guy ends up crashing into a palm tree while trying to follow them, and then they’ve finally lost him.

“Alright, there’s probably going to be some cops coming Morty, but after that we should be in the clear.” Rick explains.

When a police car does come, Rick is too fast and unpredictable for them, causing them to collide with oncoming traffic. 

“We’re not going h–h–home just yet Morty, it’s not safe.” Rick says as they pull into a parking garage. 

“But don’t you have the house covered in land mines and decoys and–” 

“Obviously URPP Morty, but I’m not in the mood to get followed and I don’t think you are either.” 

They do a quick line of coke to take the edge off before they get out of the car. Once outside, they find themselves at the center of the lively, gentrified streets of Wynwood. They figured they would blend in well enough among the crowds of hipsters and artists that frequented the area. 

They stop in front of a tattoo shop. 

“Hmm maybe I should get another piercing, maybe I could do my nipples this time, what do you think Rick?” Morty suggests. 

Rick takes a swig from his flask and says, “That’d be pretty hot, but you know what would be even fucking hotter? A tattoo.” 

Morty’s eyes brighten at the idea. “What kind of tattoo?” 

Rick leans in and murmurs in his ear, “An ‘R’, maybe in a circle to add a nice touch. Just to say to the world: Morty Smith’s ass is a registered trademark of Rick Sanchez, throughout the UGGHHP universe, in perpetuity. Actually, yeah Morty get it right on your ass, so I can get a good look at it every time I fuck you.” 

And Morty is so blitzed it seems to him like a grand idea, skin buzzing with how much Rick makes him feel so wanted. He thinks maybe they could both get one. 

“I’m down, why don’t you get a matching ‘M’?” 

“Uh sorry Morty, I’m too old for tattoos and no one ever gets to see my ass anyway.” 

“Oh come on Rick–“

“Nope. No can do Morty.”

“Wow you’re so lame! Why just me Rick?”

“You’re, you’re the hot stripper Morty.” 

And yeah, Morty can agree with that. So he stops pressing the issue. 

As soon as they enter the shop, a woman covered in tattoos and piercings asks for Morty’s ID. 

“Minors need signed parental consent for a tattoo or piercing.” She explains matter-of-factly, handing Rick a consent form. 

“I–I’m not his fucking keeper.” Rick says, crumpling the piece of paper and tossing it to the ground.

“I’m sorry sir, it’s the law. Get someone else to sign it.” 

Rick draws his pistol, leveling it with the chick’s face.

“Fuck the law.” 

The tattoo artist exhales exasperatedly, throwing her hands up. “Jesus, okay.” She mutters. “What’ll it be?” 

Rick puts away his weapon. “Now that’s what I like to hear. You’ve got something I can write on?” 

She hands him a piece of paper, and he quickly draws what he had described to Morty earlier. 

She purses her lips, setting down the artwork and getting her equipment ready, then cleans off the area off Morty’s skin that will get the tattoo. 

“You’re gonna wanna relax because this is going to hurt like hell. Just let me know when you’re ready.” She warns Morty, needle hovering over his skin. 

Rick holds Morty’s hand to comfort him and Morty sucks in a deep breath. Rick hands him a lollipop to distract him. 

“I’m ready.” Morty says. 

When she starts, the pain is like an acute, relentless pinching that causes Morty to breathe in sharply. He tucks his face into his forearm to try and concentrate on something else. 

“Hey Morty, it’ll get better, just look at me.” He hears Rick say. 

He lifts his head and they share a charged stare, and he wants to kiss Rick right then but that might freak out the tattoo artist considering she knows he’s a minor. Rick starts running his hands compassionately through Morty’s hair, and it relaxes him a little. 

When it’s over, the lady takes them to a full length mirror, and Morty turns to see the results. 

“Oh geez, this is so trashy.” Morty says, grinning. 

“Mmmhm, I love it.” Rick declares, and they’re both smiling a little stupidly at each other. 

The woman sighs, clearly not amused. She gives Morty a folded up slip of paper.

“Alright, here’s some instructions for how to take care of your new ink. Remember not to sit on it, you’re gonna want to keep yourself lying down.” 

“Oh, he’ll be horizontal alright.” Rick leers. 

Morty bursts out laughing and the tattoo artist scoffs, mumbling a disdainful “ _Wow._ ” under her breath. 

Rick places a few hundred dollar bills on the chair, not bothering to ask about the price. 

When they get to the car, Morty drapes an arm around Rick and leans into him, says, “I kinda wanna suck you off.” 

“Oh yeah?” Rick replies, drawing him closer.

Morty nods, and starts to lean down further but Rick stops him.

“You know I would love that, especially in public Morty, but we shouldn’t be seen out here anymore. Can you wait a little?”

“I don’t know... Can _you_?” Morty drawls. He slides a hand over Rick’s burgeoning erection, giving it a squeeze. 

A heavy wave of arousal courses down Rick’s spine, making him hiss. 

“N–not if you do that.” He grits out. 

“Then just let me-”

“I said _wait._ ” Rick demands, and Morty takes his hand off him, kneeling back on the seat, careful not to add friction to his new tattoo.

“Well I guess if I can’t get _you_ off, I’ll just have to take care of myself then.” Morty says as Rick drives back to the house. 

Right when Morty slides his hand inside his dress, Rick swats it away. 

“Don’t you dare touch yourself.” He says. 

“Ugh–not fair!” Morty whines. 

“It’ll be better when I do it, you’ll fucking see.” 

When they get to the house, Rick takes the duffle bag stuffed with cash from earlier and brings it with him.

As soon as they walk through the entrance, Morty slams the front door shut and shoves Rick against it, causing the latter to drop the bag next to him. The teen scrabbles for his belt buckle, making quick work of it as he pulls his pants down. 

Rick tugs Morty’s hair and guides his mouth onto his length. 

When he looks down at Morty, it’s a little much. His large eyes stare up at him expectantly as he bobs his head back and forth, as if trying to seek approval from Rick, trying to see if he likes it. And it kind of gets to Rick, the way Morty wants so much to make it good for him.

They go at it for a little while, nothing but sloppy wet sounds emanating through the otherwise total silence.

“Shit Morty, it was worth killing that guy at the restaurant, more than those other assholes. You’re–you’re fucking mine.” Rick growls, sounding a little choked off. He throws his head back on the glass when Morty swirls his tongue around the head. 

“I mean, clearly, ah–“ And he doesn’t get to finish his sentence, because he’s getting dangerously close. It’s making him lose his balance some, and he just needs to concentrate on getting what he needs right now, declarations of possessive affection be damned. 

And Morty gets him there embarrassingly fast, but neither of them care because they’re high on adrenaline and Rick’s hybrid cocaine. The drugs make Rick feel like an insatiable teenager, and he’ll probably be able to go a few rounds after this. 

Morty swallows his come right away, afterwards surging up to kiss him so Rick can taste himself on the teen’s tongue. 

And fuck, it’s hot in that kind of narcissistic way that makes him moan lowly into Morty’s mouth. 

Morty pulls them apart. “Fuck me Rick.” He demands breathlessly. 

Rick turns him so he’s facing the glass door. “Want your grandpa to fuck you against the glass, Morty? So everyone c–can fucking see you from the driveway?” 

“Yeah Rick.” Morty responds, feeling reckless. 

Morty hands Rick a small bottle of lube.

“Wait, where did you get–“

“Just get on with it.” Morty demands, not wanting to waste any time. 

“God okay, s–so bossy…” Rick mutters. 

Rick pushes up Morty’s dress up to his hips, since he’s not wearing any underwear he immediately hooks a lubed finger into Morty’s entrance. 

Morty jerks forward, gasping as Rick massages his prostate. 

“Rick, fuck, I want you now, I don’t care if it hurts.” Morty whines, trying to push Rick’s hand away.

“Are you sure?” Rick questions, making certain it’s not just the coke talking.

“Yes!” Morty pleads.

Rick nods, pinning Morty’s hands up against the glass; Morty’s wrists are slim enough to where Rick can restrain him with just one hand. It kind of turns him on, the way Morty is so petite that Rick can overpower him this easily. Sure, Morty’s a little taller than he was a year ago, but he’s a late bloomer, and Rick will take what he can before the inevitable happens.

He pushes in carefully, pausing when he gets past the tip, making sure not to hurt Morty. 

“More Rick, I need more.” The teen urges, thrusting back, trying to take him in further.

“Here’s more.” 

Rick pushes in all the way, setting a punishing pace once he gets started. Morty keens wantonly, wincing at the same time, and Rick doesn’t want to think about how and when Morty started to revel in the pain of it. 

Rick looks at Morty’s ass as they fuck. Even though the teen’s tattoo is covered in fresh bandages, he can still see it glistening through the clear material. He selfishly adores it, makes him want to hide Morty from the world so he could have him all to himself. 

And the thought makes him go deeper, makes him move brisker, and it’s harsh and dirty. And through it all Rick nearly loses his mind with the rightness of it. 

Rick takes his free hand and expertly slicks it up and down Morty’s shaft, until the teen is writhing and crying out.

After they both come, he picks Morty up smoothly, positioning him over his shoulder, taking them to his room. He drops him on the bed and helps him out his clothes. After he takes off his own clothing, he joins the teen on the bed, arm slung over his chest.

He feels Morty’s breath even out eventually, chest rising and falling as the teen gives in easily to sleep.

 

Morty wakes up in the middle of the night for no real reason. 

Rick is still awake, face buried in between Morty’s shoulder blades while tenderly drawing circles on his stomach, giving Morty goosebumps. 

They’re both still tired from earlier, so their movements are unhurried. Rick tucks his other arm under the teen’s side so that he’s wrapped around him, holding him loosely.

The way Rick touches him gets him going, and Morty nudges his hips against Rick’s to let him know what he wants. 

Rick gets the message, and soon enough he pushes into Morty easily without any prep, but he still manages to be perfectly tight around him.

Morty inhales sharply from the sudden fullness, and reaches his hand back to thread his fingers in Rick’s hair. 

Rick bites his shoulder when he goes all the way in, bone-deep and all encompassing.

Morty’s skin is still a bit sticky from sweat, there’s probably still come dried on him somewhere, and they both smell vaguely of smoke but it doesn’t matter because when Rick starts moving it hits in all the right places and he just about has an out of body experience. 

It suddenly hits him, the way this time is already better than the last. Maybe it’s because Morty can focus on all of it this time, and nothing’s a haphazard blur like the way it usually is. Maybe it’s because this time Rick’s ghosting his fingers down his abdomen and barely brushing his lips on his shoulder, it’s so intimate it scares Morty but he thinks he could do this forever.

It’s a fleeting thought, but it sticks to his mind like a virus, and he realizes he needs more, much more. 

He tells Rick to turn around, he’s burning, he needs to see his face.

Rick obliges, positioning them so that he’s hovering over Morty, and he has to catch his breath when he notices Rick gazing at him intently, like he’s memorizing every detail of Morty’s face. He laces their fingers together, pinning Morty’s hands down at his sides. 

Rick leans down so that their bodies are flush against each other, and now they’re close enough that they’re breathing in each other’s air, mouths touching. It’s not hard then for them to close the slight distance between them then. 

As Morty glides his tongue across Rick’s bottom lip, Rick pushes the teen’s bright blue headband off his head–Morty knows how he likes to see his hair splayed on his face, doe eyes peering at him through blond strands. The best thing though is when some of it starts sticking to the sweat forming on Morty’s skin, evidence of what Rick’s doing to him and the knowledge just _does_ certain things to his psyche. 

Rick begins rolling his hips a little harder then, going steady still but somehow making it so that Morty can feel every inch of it. He hears Rick say his name against his chest, over and over, until it occupies his thoughts. He barely notices that Rick had let go of his left hand at some point to stroke him so they could eventually come in unison. He doesn’t even think he needs it, he can probably come just from hearing his name on Rick’s tongue.

Rick’s eyes are screwed shut, mouth fallen open slightly. He’s panting and eliciting small groans like he’s forgotten himself, as if there was nothing else but being set ablaze by the body beneath him. The gleam from the night sky reflects off the tiny beads of sweat glistening on his forehead, mixing with Morty’s body glitter as it always does when they touch. But at this moment it makes him look like he’s glowing. 

He squeezes Morty’s hand tighter, dips his head a little as his movements become uncoordinated, and the teen loves seeing him when he’s on the edge. 

And somehow he finds himself thinking about Rick, of all the things he does that makes Morty happy. Like when Rick watches him dance, making him feel like he’s the only one on stage. He also loves to see how relieved he his when they see each other after a long day. And he specially loves the way he knows his body so well and holds him the way he likes to be held. And he loves, he loves–

“Rick.” 

The elder’s eyes open gradually. He doesn’t respond, but Morty knows he’s listening.

“I love, Rick I love you. I–”

Morty’s cut off abruptly by Rick crushing their lips together, pulling them into a bruising kiss. Sooner or later, Morty will come to understand that Rick did it to silence him. He doesn’t want to acknowledge the confession, preferring to think he never even heard it.

But presently, Morty takes it as Rick in the heat of the moment, motivated by the singular focus of chasing sweet release. And when he comes, Morty quickly follows suit, and it feels like they’re both falling, tumbling far, far down. 

And right now, Morty loves how freeing it is to fall.

 

The following days go by relatively uneventfully. Morty’s new tattoo garners the expected amount of attention, and a few of Rick’s other more outspoken dancers become vocal for a while about Rick’s overt favoritism towards Morty. 

Every once in a while Morty overhears some of the dancers’ gossip. 

One time, he heard one say: 

“I mean yeah he’s got an ass and he’s pretty good on stage, but why is the old man is so obsessed with him?” 

“I bet he gives amazing head.”

“Damn, that’s probably it. I wonder what he knows that I don’t.”

And yeah, that last part was true. That, and Morty does relish in having Rick’s complete and unwavering attention, so he thinks of it as a complement. 

He basks in the attention he’s been getting for the time being, and if Rick is a little more pensive than usual, eyes lingering on Morty a bit longer than normal (only to look away hastily when the teen senses him staring) he doesn’t take note. 

If Rick gradually increases his alcohol consumption to the point where it passes that slippery line which he’d been precariously toying with for decades, Morty does indeed notice that part. But the teen spots it too late. 

He doesn’t know what to do when he discovers the elder man nearly comatose, sprawled out across the vanity in Morty’s bedroom, makeup bottles having slipped carelessly to the ground. The mirror attached to the table is splintered down the middle as if someone had stricken it.

When Morty touches him, he’s cold, panic sets in the pit of his stomach. He’s still breathing, thankfully, but Morty’s head is frantic trying to figure out ways in which to save him. 

He runs down to the garage to search for a remedy, and he recalls vaguely Rick giving him a half hearted tour a long time ago. Unfortunately, Morty was too overwhelmed by Rick at the time to absorb any useful information. But he thinks that, if anything, he would have something in the garage. This wasn’t his first rodeo getting blackout drunk, Morty had seen him this way once or twice before, but Rick had half a mind at the time to take care of it on his own.

He rummages through hoards of vials, deconstructed weapons, and all manner of lab equipment, and at some point a flamingo comes squawking out from behind a shelf, startling Morty. 

He resolves to ask how and why later, and soon enough he uncovers a tall, thick glass container under a row of heavily modified machine guns beneath Rick’s table. The scrawled handwriting says something about being some kind overdose cure. He grabs a needle from inside.

When he gets to Rick he sticks it into the latter’s wrist, and it returns him to a semi normal state instantly.

Rick starts shifting off of the hard surface of Morty’s vanity, a bit delirious and barely cognizant of the teen’s presence. He’s panting a little like he’s been holding his breath and puts his hands on Morty’s shoulder as if to level himself. 

“Thanks Morty. We can talk about what UGHHP just happened, like uh, never.” He announces hoarsely.

He pats Morty on the shoulder and then staggers out of the room. 

Morty lets out an almost inaudible _“What the fuck?”_ but let’s it go. 

And then it happens again the very next day. This time, Morty finds him in slouched back in one of his cars. For how wealthy he is, he owns only three vehicles, one of which was a gift. 

He’s in Morty’s favorite of the three, a Fisker, and it happens to be the one Rick hates the most because “Who gives a Fisker as a gift Morty? They’re a fucking Tesla knockoff, they think they’re hot shit because they’ve got a solid-state battery. Well, they c–can suck the solid state of my dick!” 

The car is running for some reason, and Rick has thrown up all over the dash as well as the passenger seat. Morty grudgingly goes and gets the antidote when he sees him. When Rick’s cured, the teen grabs a fistfull of his jacket and practically hauls him out of the car. 

He spends the rest of the afternoon wiping the vomit off the interior. 

The following night Rick is at that plastered stage just before blackout, which to Morty’s relief means he’s conscious this time. But Rick has turned his drinking problem all the way up to eleven, and tonight, he’s twisted the dial down a single notch, and the difference is so marginal he may as well just be blacked out. 

Morty’s just glad he doesn’t have to use the syringe again, once the container is empty he’ll be forced to take Rick to the hospital and that trip would certainly end poorly. Being out in public makes them an easy target, and Morty’s not keen on dying an early death. 

Rick is reclined on the couch in the living room nursing a bottle of Grey Goose while passively watching television. 

“Hey Morty, come URPP over here… need you to do me a favor.” He calls. 

Morty strides over to him in a huff, his patience for Rick running thin. 

“What? Shouldn’t you be at Blips and Chicks doing like, I don’t know, things that normal people who run businesses do? Don’t you care about what’s going on at your own fucking stripclub?” 

“Woah there, coming on a little strong aren’t you Morty? I bet it would make you feel better if I was fucking everything up, but no Morty, I’m not that stupid. Everything’s fine. Don’t get your G-string tied up in a, in a fucking a knot.” Rick shuts his eyes and rubs the bridge of his temple and continues speaking. “I know I’ve been very drunk lately, and no, I still don’t want to talk about it. You need to help me with some of my shit for now. And yes, it does involve death. I know you’d rather I do the dirty work, but if you say no, just know that decision could get us killed. I don’t usually care when or if I die Morty, but I’ll be damned if it’ll be over your moral high ground.” 

Rick shoves a wrinkled sheet of notebook paper at the teen. “Here, just follow these instructions. Don’t bother asking for help–it was enough of a struggle to open my mouth for reasons other than to chug this Goose. The first thing on the list starts in fifteen minutes. There’s only two things on the list for tonight. Don’t UGHPP fuck up.” 

Morty glimpses the address at the top of the page. He would have to leave right away if he wanted to make it on time. He dares then, for just a moment, to stay behind and surrender to their allegedly guaranteed end. But if Rick wasn’t willing to die on his account, then Morty would return the favor and spare them, because who wants to die over an asshole who couldn’t handle his liquor?

The first step in the instructions are nearly illegible, but thankfully they’re brief. The only thing he has to do is go down to the garage and pick up a black backpack full of cash and then go to the library at the address listed. 

He finds himself at the local college, and upon entering the library he finds he has no idea what to do next, so he takes up a spot at an empty table. 

A man walks up to the table and sits across from Morty. He’s youthful, likely in his early 20s, but he’s pale from lack of sun exposure and seems to have the nervous habit of constantly adjusting his browline glasses. 

“Hey Morty.” He greets in a quiet, reserved tone. 

“How do you know my–”

“Rick told me you were coming.” The guy explains. 

“Oh. Okay.” Morty responds, somewhat bewildered. He reaches down for the backpack.

“Don’t touch it. I’ll take it with me when you leave.” The guy warns. 

“Sure…” 

The guy pushes a flash drive across the table, gesturing for Morty to take it. 

“Rick knows what it is.” The guy informs him cryptically. 

“Does he? Why is he dealing with a nerdy twenty year old at a second rate college anyway?” Morty questions skeptically. 

The man clears his throat. 

“I spent some time in juvenile detention for inciting a statewide data breach as a teen hacker. Family has been drowning in lawyer fees ever since. I met Rick by chance. He came in here wasted and mistook me for you, and that’s how we got to talking. He made a deal with me to launder the profit of his narcotics sales by turning it into untraceable cryptocurrency exchanges. Because of him, I’ll be able to transfer to MIT next year. ”

Morty stares at him incredulously. He wants to know why Rick would hide this from him, but he prefers to ask Rick himself later.

“Okay, so you’re smart. But you’re still practically a stranger. Why would Rick trust you?” Morty asks.

“He’s implanted a chip on me so he knows my location at all times. He doesn’t know that I’m aware of it. He’s planted one on you too.”

“Wait, how do you know that?”

“He’s completely obsessed with you. It would only make sense.” 

Morty stares down awkwardly at his hands and arms, as if to see if he could detect the chip underneath his skin.

“What do you mean obsessed? Rick’s super into me, sure, but he only fawns over his cocaine and a decent bottle of Ketel One.” 

The man chuckles and shakes his head. 

“So lately I’ve been texting him questions for this microbiology course I’m taking. He only answers when he’s drunk, and he never texts back, he just calls. And when he’s on the phone, he goes on these long winded rants about how great of a dancer you are, or that time you accidentally killed some high ranking Bolivian narc. He wouldn’t stop talking about that for weeks. Seems obvious he was pretty lonely before you came along. He wasn’t like that a year ago.” 

Morty’s not sure how to respond to that, and a flurry of mixed emotions swirl around at the pit of his stomach. “Um... Rick says a lot of things when he’s drunk, y–you know?” 

“Is that what you tell yourself?” The man questions.

Morty sputters a little, not being able to form an adequate response. He starts fidgeting with a pencil that was left behind at the desk, unsure what to do with himself.

The man picks up a weathered copy of _Lolita_ that he had brought with him and starts to read it, having apparently lost interest in the conversation. 

He looks up from the book and tells Morty that he has to take an exam in a few short minutes, but that it was a pleasure to put a name to a face. 

Morty takes off then, cataloging the strange encounter in his head to bring up to Rick later. Back in the car, he reads through the next set of instructions. This one is much harder to understand, and he has to turn the page around and reconstruct the wording to the best of his ability. Morty is sure Rick wrote the whole thing in a devolving state of drunkenness, and of course he picked the most complex portion of his to-do list to spiral out of control on the page. 

It kind of goes a little like this: 

An aspiring mafioso with his eyes on Rick’s clientele was beginning to scale his operation into Rick’s turf. In the note, Rick makes a point to say that the mafia guy, who went by Juarez, had raped one his Rick’s strippers to provoke him. 

_‘I hope you’re not above ending this guy Morty.’_

In theory, Morty was all for it. As he read on though, things seemed to get hairy, specially one specific part of the note, which reads as such:

_‘Make sure you don’t [ILLEGIBLE], because they run in the same circles. When you do go out for this make sure to [ILLEGIBLE], or else they will definitely go [ILLEGIBLE]. I plan on getting him at a later time._

_If you don’t feel safe [ILLEGIBLE]._

_Here’s their [ILLEGIBLE]:  
[ILLEGIBLE] _

It’s like a game of Mad Libs, except the wrong answer gets you maimed or killed. Morty senses his hands start to tremble and he feels uneasy about the whole thing. The hit is supposed to take place at a party at a Key Biscayne mansion, and he only has one hour to prepare. Rick’s note says it’s black tie, so he puts on an emerald colored gown sporting a plunging neckline and does his best with his makeup. Rick’s input is to simply poison Juarez’s drink since it would be less risky, but he advises Morty to use his pistol if he needs to. 

Rick’s taken the convertible, saying something about going to the liquor store. Morty’s barred from using the other two cars, since Rick thinks he’s not ready to drive something that expensive yet, so he calls an Uber.

Before the car arrives, he does a quick hit of cocaine. He remembers what Rick said to him during one of the first few times Morty tagged along to one of his assassination plots:

_‘The thing about murder, Morty, is that you don’t do it sober.’_

And Morty is set on definitely not being sober for this.

The act goes off without a hitch, with Juarez’s dead body lying in his upstairs master bedroom appearing to unsuspecting partygoers that he was merely asleep. An unrelated detail that irked Morty was that a blonde woman at the party was wearing his same dress. She was even tan and short in stature. He for some reason hates it when he finds people wearing the same stuff since he takes so much pride in his appearance. 

Morty shrugs it off though and is about to go back home when the sound of gunshots echoes through the house. 

The teen is still on the second floor, and he hastily finds a closet to hide in. 

“We’re looking for Morty Smith!” He hears distantly.

Dread creeps up in Morty’s throat, he hadn’t anticipated or planned for this at all. 

He hears another gunshot, and then soon after the perpetrators come into the room where Morty is hiding. The teen is gripping his weapon, waiting for the inevitable. 

“Are you sure it wasn’t that other girl?” One of them says, as they pace around the room.

“No man, I think they were just wearing the same outfit. Morty’s got fucking man bits down there, and that other one was clearly a chick.” 

“Well it’s too bad we clipped her then.” 

“Shitty luck, huh?”

The closet door slides open, and Morty fires his pistol instantly. He manages to kill one of them and get the other below the collarbone. 

The other one staggers back, but rapidly regains his composure before Morty can get another shot in and lunges at him. The impact causes Morty to let go of his gun, and he’s gotten ahold of the barrel of the man’s own pistol, making it so that when the man pulls the trigger the shot pierces the ceiling. As they both wrestle with the firearm, the guy says:

“Remember that guy you and your geriatric fuck buddy killed a few nights ago? Manuel? Well I’m his father motherfucker!” 

_Oh shit._

This is what the last paragraph of gibberish that was in Rick’s instructions must have meant.This critical information that now has Morty fighting for his life, Rick was too careless to ensure he understood it properly, too self absorbed to bother writing it sober.

Morty sees Manuel’s father slowly recapture his grip on the trigger, and Morty knows his life cannot end this way. He’s too young to die. And so, through sheer willpower and the need to stay alive Morty bites down on the man’s arm. Hard. 

The man cries out, loosening his hold on the gun but just when Morty is about to twist it out of his hand the man bears down, pistol-whipping Morty on the head (he would only feel the full brunt of the impact later). The teen is still running on pure adrenaline and drugs, and so with a force he didn’t know he was capable of he wrenches the gun out of the man’s hand and shoots him in the chest, and the man crumbles to the ground. 

Morty darts out of the room, but stops when he gets to the stairwell. The woman who was wearing the same outfit as him is lying face down on the tile floor, blood spreading out into a halo around her upper body. 

It feels like he’s looking down at himself, as if an alternate fate from an alternate reality was playing out in front of him, showing him what could’ve been. 

It tears apart something inside him, and he’s too far gone to notice the tears rolling down his eyes as he watches her in total anguish. 

“I’m sorry.” Morty whispers, standing still over her body for just a moment.

He then sprints out of the house before the police arrives. He runs and runs, until he finds an alleyway by a corner store and goes through. But as he enters, he trips on a pile of glass shards and falls on his side, and he had been running fast enough to where the gravel scrapes his skin all the way down his arm and on part of his neck upon impact. Streaks of blood burst down his side, and when he sits up the harsh sting of glass slicing and wedging into bits of his skin makes Morty wail in pain.

He starts to sense it then–a horrible feeling cresting in his chest, making him feel like the world is caving in all around him.

Morty hasn’t had a panic attack since before, when some of his former classmates shoved his head in the toilet of the boy’s bathroom. It’s a classic bully move, but they held Morty’s face in the water for far too long, and he was suffocating, close to drowning. 

And it feels a little bit like drowning this time around too because he can’t catch his breath for the life of him.

His heart is slamming in his chest, he’s off-kilter, and the night sky is getting darker in his vision. 

He starts to think about what his old counselor said about stopping a panic attack, something about deep breathing, finding his happy place. Morty imagines himself with Rick, but the image that’s stuck in his mind is of Rick dangerously wasted, draped over the couch and clutching a bottle of Goose like it’s his last. And that mental image isn’t exactly pleasant or reassuring. But he doesn’t have time to think about anything or anyone else, because he’s still hyperventilating. And he’s aching from having been pistol-whipped. He steadily but surely slips out of consciousness. 

He’s not sure how long he blacks out right then.

When he comes to, he notices the blood has started drying on his dress and his head is still pounding. He brushes off bits of gravel and glass stuck to his skin as he gets up, and he tries to pick off some of the dirt out of the cuts. His hands are shaking as he texts one of his coworkers to come get him. He knows she’s off tonight, and he doesn’t think he could bear to be seen like this by any of his other friends.

She doesn’t ask him why, just agrees to pick him up. 

After a few minutes, Morty is enveloped in the white shine of her headlights, going around to open the passenger door. 

He sits down gingerly, trying to not appear as completely off balance as he feels. 

She glances at him briefly, sighing when she sees the state he’s in, assuming the worst. She’s seen her friends fucked up by men before, but Morty is clearly Rick’s favorite stripper and she’s shocked he would do this to him, of all people.

“Morty, if you don’t want to go back home, I can take you somewhere else for a while. Lay low for a couple days until we figure something out so you don’t have to see Rick again.” She enunciates every word purposefully, each syllable punctuated with a measured seriousness that he’s never heard from her before. 

She’s staring straight ahead now, and her knuckles are white on the steering wheel. 

“You think he did this to me?” Morty asks, tired.

“I’ve never seen Rick hit a girl, but he’s capable of anything. I don’t want to see you getting hurt Morty.” She turns her head to look at him finally, her eyes roving over his grimy, tear stained face.

The orange glow of the streetlights partially illuminates her soft, radiant complexion as she speaks. The contrast between them isn’t lost on Morty, he feels like week old trash that’s been stewing out in the sun. He yearns for a shower and a few bottles of hard liquor to forget the last few hours.

“It’s not like that.” He responds, and it’s not what he means to say. His head is still throbbing vigorously and he just can’t seem to put the right words together.

She crosses her arms, lips twisting angrily. 

“Oh. What’s it like then Morty?” She questions bitingly.

Morty tosses his head back against the headrest, groaning in frustration, or agony, or both. 

“He wasn’t there! That’s what, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. He’s been at the house.” 

That’s the best he can do as far as an explanation goes.

“What do you mean? Where were you?”

There’s too many questions, she’s saying too many words for Morty to keep up. 

He mumbles something in response, some kind of inaudible babble that serves to perplex his friend further. Before she can say anything though Morty’s phone vibrates in his lap, and she grabs it.

She knows Morty’s passcode already, and reads the incoming text from Rick.

“Morty in the building next to Brickell Honda there’s some… At five tomorrow.” She squints at the screen, then continues. “This is all gibberish. How the fuck does Rick expect anyone to read this?” 

Her eyes scan the next few lines of text, then her eyes go wide incredulously.

“Fuck Morty, is that pendejo of your boyfriend or sugar daddy or whatever the hell he is to you, is he actually making you do his hits for him? Alone?” 

Morty shrugs. The answer is sitting right right next to her. 

She shakes her head. “That’s not like him. He would never let anyone do his business. There must be something wrong with him that you’re not telling me.” 

Morty groans again, blearily watching cars pass in front of them. He just can’t handle this conversation anymore. 

“He’s gone super sayan alcoholic this week so he’s, he’s pretty useless. God I don’t know. Can you take me home now?” He murmurs. His eyes are closed and he’s rubbing his temples slowly to try and ease the pain.

She regards him with some skepticism, clearly wanting to push the subject more.

She sighs. “Okay, but we’re talking about this again later, got it?”

Morty nods wearily, thankful the conversation is finally over. 

When she takes him home, he’s nearly asleep in his seat. When she parks, she leans over the dash and jostles him, instructing him to stay awake for at least a few hours longer, saying something about sleeping being dangerous during a concussion. 

When Morty opens the door to exit the car he stumbles out, dizzy from having stood up too abruptly. 

His friend curses silently, grabbing him by his clothes, and then unexpectedly he’s being carried bridal style into the house. One of his heels falls from his foot as she strides up the staircase with him, and she nearly trips on it trying to avoid the empty bottles on the stair steps.

When they get to his room she lays him down, and then proceeds to turn on all the lights in the bedroom causing Morty to whine in protest. She tells him when she leaves she’s going to call him every hour until morning to keep him awake. 

She puts his arms over his head and slides his bloodied dress off his body. She picks a shirt out of his closet, and chuckles to herself at the amount of crop tops in the closet.

Despite the makeup smeared down his face, she notices how young he looks when she puts a clean shirt on him. They had just celebrated what they thought was his twenty first birthday, he always looked young but he barely looked like a teenager then, curled up on his bed. She had always assumed he was lying about his age, but she didn’t know by how much. 

Whatever’s going on between Morty and Rick right now unsettles her to the point where she eventually finds herself in front of Rick’s bedroom door, curious to find out something, anything. 

She turns the knob quietly, peering into the room, her eyes take in the scene in front of her. 

At first, it’s not too bad because the carpet of his large bedroom blends in with the dark liquor bottles covering the floor, and it takes a while to notice there isn’t a spot anywhere on the ground that isn’t concealed by hollow glass. 

However, if you don’t notice that particular detail, you’d think Rick, being older, may have just been too tipsy and tired to make it onto his mattress. Of course, it’s not normal to find someone slumped forward on the floor at the edge of their bed, but Rick is quirky and eccentric, no one really knows what to expect with him. 

But you’d be lying to yourself because everything is indeed as bad as it looks, and Rick is taking in harsh breaths and he looks pale.

She rushes to his side, shakes him, but he’s out like a light. 

“Come on, Rick, no no no…” She says desperately and her hand brushes against something beside him that is clearly not liquor. 

‘GIVE TO RICK IF OVERDOSING. (Or not. If it’s that bad he wants to die.)’ the container reads.

She scoffs–Rick really does have a death wish.

She then stuffs her hand inside and pulls out a syringe, rolling his sleeve back and plunging it into his arm without much forethought. 

After a few seconds Rick’s eyes blink open groggily, appearing disoriented. 

He grabs her arm loosely but doesn’t turn to meet her eyes. 

“Fuck… Morty thanks. And thanks for doing that hit. Was BRRRP great I’m sure…” He slurs.

He goes on:  
“You know Morty this is awkward but… I gotta just say it since you’re here and I keep saying we’re not gonna talk about it, but it’s been bugging me… You shouldn’t, you shouldn’t love me. You said you loved me the other day and oh man, no bueno… No sé lo que voy hacer… Contigo...” He’s staring straight up as he says this, head leaned back, as if the ceiling fan is the most interest thing in his vision. 

Emily stands up quickly when she hears what he said, backing away slowly in disbelief. 

Rick never gets this fucked up over anyone.

It’s all too personal for her to stay around much longer. She’s just someone who works for him, after all. The situation is all kinds of fucked up anyway, and she just has to take off. 

So she does. 

She goes home and all she can do is think about Morty curled up towards the wall, looking like he just went to war, half awake and staring blankly into nothingness. And Rick, limp against the side of his bed, reveling in absolute denial of what’s going on between him and Morty. 

She wonders how it got so bad, how no one saw the signs things were bound to be fucked. She wishes she could intervene somehow but she just feels like a bystander to an epic trainwreck that’s long over, and there’s too many jagged pieces to bother picking up. And who is she to the passengers on this metaphorical train? It’s got nothing to do with her.

She knows she’s seen too much to just let it go though, but she wills herself to stop thinking about it, wills herself to go to sleep in the end. 

 

The next morning, Morty feels like he’s hungover. His head is railing against him, throat feeling like sandpaper. Emily kept to her word, calling every hour on the hour preventing him from sleeping. 

At some point he had foolishly mixed Red Bull with Adderall to keep himself from getting tired, but now, when he feels like he needs sleep the most he can’t find it in him to do it.

So he decides the best thing to do is take a shower, since he desperately needs one. 

When he passes by the mirror in his bathroom, he catches his reflection. His hair is wild and his eyes are bloodshot. There’s deep cuts and dried blood smattered on his skin and part of a dark bruise blooming on his forehead spreading back to his scalp. When he goes to open the medicine cabinet, he notices a contusion in the shape of a hand imprint on his wrists. Any bystander would assume he was some kind of domestic violence victim.

He lets out a long breath, resigned to the fact that this may indeed be one of the worst days he’s ever had, right up there with getting nearly drowned to death in the boy’s bathroom at school, or that time Rick had left him behind during a shoot out. 

Rick–he suddenly remembers that he didn’t check up on him before getting in the shower. But as the water rains down on him, clear liquid turning red as it hits the drain, he can’t help but feel bitterness run through him. 

This was all because of that motherfucker, who’s right now sure to be lying in a puddle of his own vomit, having thoroughly wrecked himself for the fourth day in a row. 

He loved Rick, that much he made clear, but he can’t believe how he had felt so dazzled by him. He had allowed himself to be wrapped around Rick’s finger so that he would say yes to anything and not get much in return. 

He thinks about the other night when Rick refused to get a tattoo like the one Morty got, and he also didn’t reply when the teen admitted that he loved him later on. And then there was that bizarre encounter with the college kid, the one that Rick is practically helping through college, while Morty was stuck without having graduating high school because of him. 

Rick would go on and on about how Morty was his, but the older man wouldn’t allow himself to be had by anyone, it seems. 

And for fuck’s sake, Rick could not have been bothered to clarify information that would’ve saved Morty from nearly getting killed by Manuel’s father.

Morty wouldn’t have guessed it would end up this way, with him watching his own blood wash down the drain while feeling so much regret. Rick had promised him not too long ago he would never let him get hurt. 

But letting people down is kind of Rick’s thing. 

If he’s honest with himself, he really should’ve known it would end up this way, right from the beginning. In that very moment Rick lifted his automatic from under his car seat for the first time in his presence, the teen should’ve run away, run far from what was bound to happen.

He thinks about his first hit. It was back when danger was a novelty and the idea of witnessing a person’s death paralyzed him. Before, when he had never even felt the solid weight of a firearm in his hands. In fact, Rick had taken him down to the hit on the same night of his arrival south, suitcases still sitting in his room unpacked and the humidity just beginning to cling to his skin. 

Rick claimed it was his way of welcoming him to the big city. To the elder man, nothing said “Welcome to Miami” like standing triumphantly over the corpse of a rival cartel boss.

Experiencing his first hit was like some kind of right of passage, truly, since nothing was ever the same after. Morty still remembers the fresh horror of narrowly getting shot in the arm by a stray bullet, Rick shoving him down underneath a table to avoid another bullet flying towards them. And for his part, Morty could barely keep up, being dragged from one side of the club to the next as Rick brazenly finished the job.

The utter violence made Morty feel he was in some kind of real life Grand Theft Auto saga, but that was merely a video game. What he was caught up in had tangible and permanent consequences. The woman in the copycat dress was a sobering reminder of that. But the fact never affected Morty as profoundly as it did now, when it was him facing the barrel of a gun. And the question of whether he could risk his life again in such a manner haunted him, stirred an irrational desire to walk away from the whole thing completely. He knew how to look after himself, he could pack his things and go back to Washington in a heartbeat. But deep down he knew he’d never do it. His friends were all down here, and he had fallen for Miami’s balmy weather and white, sandy beaches. Besides, he couldn’t imagine what his mother would say about his delinquent streak if he carried on the same way back at home.

He realized what he needed to do then. 

When he’s out of the shower, he goes to his room and makes some phone calls.

Then, he reaches into his closet and empties his long neglected school bag onto the carpet. There’s not much in there save for some broken pencils and half of an eraser. When Morty shakes out the last of the bag’s contents, an old, crumpled sticky note falls out. 

Out of curiosity, he unfolds it to read what it says. 

_‘Dye your hair blond. It’ll help with the identity crisis.’_

It makes Morty rolls his eyes. The morning after his first night in Miami, Morty found the note tucked in the front pocket of his backpack on his way to school. Rick hadn’t cared enough to get his cell number yet. 

The presumptuousness of it had pissed him off. Rick hadn’t checked to make sure the teen was okay after the carnage from the night before, instead preferring to make what in Morty’s opinion was a completely asinine comment considering he barely knew him then.

Of course, Morty did end up dying it blond. He’d do just about anything Rick told him to do, it appeared. 

Morty left the note stuck on the carpet, and stuffed the backpack with as many of his belongings as he could fit inside. He got a suitcase from his closet and filled it with more of his things, taking the bags down to the trunk of Rick’s car before the latter could notice. 

He then went down to Rick’s room. He’s grown accustomed to the sorry scene before him, the total disarray barely registering in his head. Though, he did notice that Rick’s alcohol poisoning remedy had been used, lying almost empty on the floor next to his sleeping form. 

Morty feels a sense of embarrassment when remembering Emily, thinking about how one of Rick’s own employees had to intervene last night because Rick was too shitty to keep it together. 

Morty crouches down and jostles his shoulder, mutters in his ear: “Hey Rick, Pappy Van Winkle just released another batch in Alabama, and the liquor store in Pinecrest got their hands on one. Let’s go get it!” 

Rick groggily opens his eyes. “But it isn’t, it isn’t fall yet...” He mumbles, rubbing his face in his hands. 

“It’s a surprise drop! Come on let’s go.” Morty insists, yanking Rick up to his feet. He’s wobbling from intoxication.

“Fuck.” Morty groans, steadying Rick with arm under his shoulder. And they walk like that all the way to the car. 

Rick closes his eyes as Morty drives, and the teen checks every once in a while to make sure he remains that way.

They pull up to an indistinct building with long rows of dark, tinted windows. Once inside, Morty walks up to the front desk with Rick not far behind him. 

“What the fuck URP is this...” Rick mumbles, the people in the waiting area watch him warily as he dazedly lumbers over to Morty. 

“Thanks for admitting my grandpa on such short notice.” Morty says, smiling at the front desk woman, who hands him a clipboard. 

“Absolutely, glad we could make an exception for someone who made such a generous donation to the facility. Just fill out the paperwork and we’ll take care of the rest. The ninety days fly by quick, we promise you won’t miss him too much.” The lady reassures him.

“Sounds great.” The teen says. 

Two nurses come and escort Rick out of the room, but not before the latter jerks around yells, “Wait, Morty, this isn’t the–” The door slams shut behind them before Rick can finish his sentence.

As the nurses depart with Rick, Morty’s grin doesn’t falter as he watches him go. 

When Morty finishes with the paperwork, he walks out into the brilliant morning sun and lets the warmth absorb into his skin. He can hear a cacophony of chirps as birds fly overhead. 

He walks over to Rick’s car and pauses for a second, resting his forehead on the window.

He peers into the driver’s side, a bottle of Hennessy glints blindingly in the sunlight making Morty’s eyes burn.

He grabs the bottle and smashes it on the ground, his reflection distorted amongst the scattered shards.

Satisfied then, he takes his leave. The car ride is quiet, lets him focus on the road ahead. 

He drives and drives, and he never looks back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote most of this on my phone and I regret the hand cramps.
> 
> I got a new Tumblr by the way: real-vitamin-gummies.tumblr.com
> 
> Final chapter will be out in 2 weeks or less, thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

“Uh, hey. I’m Rick and I’m an alcoholic.” 

He stands up from his chair as he announces himself, facing a group of people sitting around in a circle. 

“Hi Rick.” A few of them say back.

“So I don’t want to talk about myself. Because, if we’re all being honest here, no one gives a fuck about what me or anyone else has to say in this, this _literal_ circle jerk. I would rather give some advice. And I think it’s warranted considering my superior intelligence, and the fact that that I could care less about everyone here which makes me unbiased.” 

“Wow, _superior intelligence?_ Are you saying you’re better than us?” A teenage girl whose sitting in front of him asks. 

“I am. And actually, Ashley–”

It’s Natasha you dipshit.” 

“Whatever Natalie, I’ve lost too many brain cells listening to you go on about how your mom ‘just, doesn’t like, understand me, and Tame Impala just _does_.’ And trust me, your mom probably does regret the abortion didn’t work, and starving yourself won't make her regret it less. Some people have _real_ problems over here, but you can’t stop talking about how much you bruise easily, and why other people not being vegan is ‘like, _sooo_ problematic.’ Honestly, you’d be less cringey if you stopped acting like you’re special because you’re not.” 

The girl stands up abruptly, clenching her fists. 

“Fuck you! Who do you think you are? You have no _right_ to talk that way.” 

The group starts whispering amongst themselves, and then someone else speaks up.

“Wait, hold on now–maybe this is the way he lets it all out. Not all folks are built the same–let him say his piece.” 

Rick turns to the man, frowning. 

“You. You’re the person that ‘Florida Man’ was named after. You should lay off the meth a little and maybe switch cocaine. It’ll help with that teeth situation you’ve got going on, and it might stop you from wrestling alligators in the McDonald’s parking lot.”

“Hey, now that’s not fucking fair!” The guy says, pointing at Rick.

“Yeah! What the hell is your problem old man?” Another girl yells, and Rick looks at her next.

“And you, you are the fucking worst. It’s like your facial piercings and track pants just scream: ‘Hey world, my parents don’t l–l–love me, so I’m just gonna start crushing Xanax and stop using condoms.’ And you’re like what, sixteen and this is your _third_ kid? I bet you’re just dying to be the MVP of teen pregnancy. I’ve got two words for you: _Stop. Breeding._ Fucking just end that shit–” 

And the man from before is lunging at him, but Rick stops his fist before it connects with his face, and then they’re both grappling with each other.

The therapist who had been sitting quietly amongst the group shakes her head and exhales exasperatedly. 

“Oh God, not again…” She mutters, pressing a button on a device she’s holding, and not a moment later two security guards come and pry Rick off the man, pulling him away from the group. 

“Wait, hold on, so what’s your deal then? Why are you even in here when you’re obviously dying to get out?” Natasha, the first victim of his vitriolic rant, asks. 

The guards pause to let Rick answer, but they’re still holding him by the arm. 

“Someone brought me against my will, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

“But that means someone cares about you, isn’t that worth getting better for?”

Rick rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, sure, get John Green to write a fucking novel about it.” 

He flips the girl off, both middle fingers raised in the air as he says it, and it provokes a few more people to shoot up angrily out of their seats. 

“Alright, that’s enough.” One of the guards says, shoving Rick away from the group. They take him down a brightly lit hallway lined with rows of doors until they stop at one at the end of the hall. 

“Sorry, we’re going to have to lock you in until the session’s over like we did yesterday. You’ve pissed a lot of people off this time, I wouldn’t come out for a while though if I were you.” One of them warns.

When they leave, he paces through his room and then settles for sitting on his bed, arms crossed in agitation.

As soon as Rick realized Morty had put him in rehab, he had decided to stay, so he could prove that it wouldn’t work on him. Show that he was an alcoholic, through and through, and that no one, not even Morty, could try and change that. 

His determination has severely waned since then–two days proving to be too much, so he decided he would leave tonight. Morty may have bribed the facility to keep him there involuntarily (even though that was technically illegal), but he’ll be damned if he stays sober for one more day. His current bout with sobriety had been the longest he’s been without alcohol since Beth was born, and even back then it was only for a single day. 

He stays in his room until nightfall, preparing for when the nurses come by to do their nightly rounds. When they get to him, it’s just one nurse this time. 

He pretends to fall, using his aged appearance to feign fragility. When the nurse gets ahold of his arm to bring him up, Rick stealthily pierces the blunt tip of a pen into the nurse’s neck while at the same time placing a hand over his mouth to stifle his sounds of anguish.

He slams the man’s face against the linoleum floor to finish him off, and gets him out of his scrubs before the rush of blood soaks them entirely. 

Thankfully, the fabric is black, and Rick can hide in it amidst the now dimly lit halls of the rehab center. 

He calmly leaves unnoticed, but he knows he’ll need to do some damage control later. 

It’s pouring rain when he steps out, and he realizes he has no means of transportation to go back home, since Morty didn’t leave any of his belongings with him when he left him there. So, he makes the trek home on foot. Fortunately, he knows Miami’s streets like the back of his hand and makes it there without any trouble. 

The defense system he had built around his house was such that it could be disabled temporarily once his (and Morty’s) presence was detected, so all he has to do was walk up to the door until it recognizes his face, and then he’s finally out of the rain. 

He’s ready to give Morty a piece of his mind right then, but he stops when he notices his phone sitting on the kitchen counter. There were several unread texts, but he opened Morty’s right away. It was from two days ago.

_Get well soon. Don’t contact me._

Rick’s about to hit reply, but he knows that Morty has already blocked him without even trying to check. He goes up to the teen’s room just to verify some of his other suspicions, and he sees a lot of his belongings are still there, but a portion of his closet is gone in his attempt to make a hasty exit. 

He checks the garage as well, and sees that all of his cars are there, noting that Morty had brought back the convertible at some point while he was gone.

He calls up one of his dancers, the indignation in her voice is palpable, but Rick ignores it in favor of asking about Morty.

_“He doesn’t work for you anymore.”_

Rick sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose in frustration, but he doesn’t let it surprise him.

“I can see that, I just want to know if there’s some kind of time frame so I can know when his little disappearing act is over.” 

_“Just leave him alone Rick. He needs time after what he’s been through with you. Are you still in rehab?”_

“Uh, yeah, I just got my phone privileges today actually. So who’s r–running all my shit now? I should, uh, probably try to come by soon.” 

_“Rick–we’re fine. We don’t need you to step in right now. Just get through rehab, we’ve got everything under control until you come back.”_

“Alright, whatever.” 

_“Take care, Rick.”_

_Click._

He chucks his phone across the counter and watches it collide against the backsplash. He had drank through most of his liquor supply, and the only bottle left in the kitchen was an Ace of Spades he had gotten as a gift long ago. He pops it open and tips it back, humming contentedly as the champaign hits his throat, downing it like a lifeline. 

The fact that Morty’s broken it off with him is not necessarily a revelation, but more of a fact that he doesn’t want to process, and if he’s lucky he’ll forget it when he gets ahold of more liquor. 

He tells himself that Morty is just another bystander who had the misfortune of being in his destructive path. And at this point, Rick thinks he’s too old to change his course. The only difference was that he cared about him a little more than the others. And that was that. 

He numbly goes about his week then, drifting in and out of an alcohol induced haze. At some point he takes care of some drug related business, but pulling the trigger on a stranger doesn’t bring him any gratification or excitement. It just is. 

It’s like he’s in limbo, having weeks before people will believe he’s out of rehab and he can get on with his life without Morty. 

He’s got nothing to do, no one to see, and most of the things he enjoys doing he did with Morty, so there was that too.

_Morty._

How did he let that teenager permeate every aspect of his life so easily? Fucking Morty, with his stupid smile, and his dumb bubbly laugh, and his too large eyes, and those delicate fucking hands that reach up and–

 _Shit._

He finds himself in Morty’s room one night, fingers grabbing at the the threads of the carpet, because he’s so wasted he can’t even _sit_ straight. And under the moonlight he finds his fingertips are shimmering. It must be that Morty’s body glitter is embedded in the carpet, and it enrages him that the evidence of him is all over, ingrained even in the fibers of the floor. 

His hand brushes a crumpled sticky note, and he opens it to find that it’s from a year ago, when he told Morty callously to bleach his hair so as to somehow help with his teenage insecurities.

And right then he’s reminded of something that he already knows–that he’s a cruel motherfucker, always has a been. 

He leaves Morty’s room and goes to his convertible, brings with him a bottle of the most expensive bourbon he owns. 

It’s four in the morning, but he drives to Miami Beach, sneaks through a private residence to get to the sand. 

He walks aimlessly along the edge of the shore until he finishes his bourbon and discards it into the water. 

A heaviness settles in him despite his intoxicated state, and he trudges through the water, lets the infinite darkness surround him as he’s drawn in. 

In the far recesses of his mind, the empty beach reminds him of his youth in Sinaloa, one of Mexico’s states that lies further south. He had grown up on its coast, years before the area was overtaken by cartels and wracked with the influence of drugs. 

He rarely ever talks about it. He lets people believe he’s always been from Miami, as immigrants blend in comfortably there. 

But on certain joyless nights like these, he drifts back to Sinaloa as the self conscious, rebellious teen from days past who could never win over his parents’ favor. 

He was a small time dealer back then, selling dime bags of heroin to beach goers and tourists to make an extra buck to sustain himself, since his parents were poor factory workers.

When his father found out, though, he found him in his room and slammed him hard against his bedpost, throwing the white powder in his face, stinging his eyes as the plastic burst open from impact. He’s still got a scar on his shoulder from the ordeal. 

His father was always angry, ever since Rick could remember. He hated everything Rick did, even things that made the youth happy. For instance, when they found him in his room taking his clothes off with another teenage boy, his father yanked him by the hair and threw him out of his bedroom. His mother called him un _’maldito maricón’_ until Rick drowned out her voice by hiding in his room with a pillow over his head, tears staining the fabric.

One day during a temporary truce, his father had taken him to the beach early in the morning when no one was around. Rick remembers him passing him a beer as they sat close to the shoreline. At some point his dad announces that him and Rick’s mother had climbed the ranks through the factory and were soon about to take over ownership of it. But with their advancing age and their failing health, they couldn’t own it for long. He told Rick matter-of-factly that he was to take over for them, for the good of the family. 

Rick firmly disagrees to it, not wanting factory work to define his life. His response incenses his father, and he shoves him hard, making him fall into the crashing waves.

His hands hold Rick under, strangling him by his neck. 

_‘You’re worthless; un malagradecido. I should just drown you.’_

But Rick’s not going to die by his father’s hand, so he reaches out blindly and digs his nails into his father’s eyes, and the man lets up for just a second so Rick can get the chance to reposition them. He brings his father down and drives his face into the water, just like he had done to him.

The youth is pulsating with pent up fury as he tightly grasps his neck, and he doesn’t notice when the latter eventually goes limp beneath him.

After a while Rick hoists him up, shakes him, but he’s not breathing. 

When he realizes what he’s done, he drags the corpse as far out into the ocean as he can muster. 

He numbly takes in the sight of his newly deceased father sinking down into the darkness, and then swims back to shore. 

He can’t process it, and everything feels like a complete nightmare as he looks down at his trembling hands disbelievingly. He’s never ended anyone’s life before then, had never thought himself capable. 

Until _now._

When he goes home he can’t bear to look his mother in the eye, can’t admit the truth. 

So he runs away. 

He flees for Miami with just the clothes on his back. He’s only nineteen and doesn’t speak a single word of English. He manages to catch on quickly, however, and eventually he would learn to get rid of his accent entirely. 

He would assume a new identity for himself, a new nature. He would no longer be the scared boy hiding behind his father’s looming shadow, since he’d gotten rid of that shadow entirely.

He had promised his mother before he left that he would be successful despite not joining the manufacturing plant, but soon after she died of carcinogens produced by fumes on the factory floor.

He imagines his father would hate him for not being at her side during her death.

_‘If you hadn’t left like a fucking coward, maybe the poor woman would have lived.’_

It's an irrational assumption, but Rick’s run the logic in his head before. If he had stayed, he could’ve used his smarts to improve conditions at the factory, or scrambled to experiment with chemo drugs, or maybe just him being there could've helped somehow. He always imagines his father savagely screaming all these possibilities in his face when he thinks them. 

And years later, it feels like the late Sanchez has got his fingers wrapped around his neck in an unyielding grip like on that fateful morning, fighting to submerge him into the water once again. 

He’s lost his will, and he’ll let the ghost of his father take over this time around.

As he goes deeper, a mundane memory flashes in his mind, unbidden. It was an ordinary afternoon, him and Morty were watching television, and the latter had been resting his head in his lap. At one point while Rick was absently stroking his hair, Morty looked up at him, grinning openly and contently. Rick shifted his hand to lightly ghost his fingers on Morty’s soft lips, and the teen angled up into the touch. It was an insignificant moment, but he had since relished in the domesticity of it, and of all the times like it that they had shared together, feeling in the depths of himself that Morty could be the redemption he didn’t deserve. 

The images tug at his chest, now. He really doesn’t deserve him.

Rick decides he doesn’t want to inflict any more pain on Morty, that ultimately what he deserves is to be buried in the ocean next to his father. 

He keeps going farther, but he’s not more than shoulder deep when he steps on something smooth and solid. He peers down, and notices that it’s emitting a bright light blurred by the water’s gentle current. 

He plunges into the water and grabs it. It’s an odd contraption–weighty and shaped vaguely like a gun mixed with a video game controller. He studies it, noticing it has a small light bulb at the top that’s radiating green light. He examines the rest of it–below the light is a black dial, and sitting in between the dial and the bulb is a red LED screen, showing off seemingly random strings of numbers and letters that did little to indicate the purpose of the apparatus. 

He hovers his thumb over the the dial, unsure if he should turn it.

“Fuck it.” He mutters.

With his misery momentarily abandoned, he twists the dial. Nothing happens, but when he points the device out in front of him, flares of green cut through the water. At first they appear to be distorted bands of static, like something’s not quite right. But then they appear to correct themselves into a tall oval light, partially immersed in the water. 

The green sphere is radiant like one of the neon signs outside his strip club, and it’s luminous intensity beckons to him. He find himself wading towards it. When he comes out the other side it’s obvious he’s no longer in Miami, and maybe not even anywhere on earth for that matter. 

He’s a little disoriented, overwhelmed from trying to process everything that he sees in front of him. 

He mentally walks back through his day to make sure that he didn’t take anything psychedelic, because he feels like he’s tripping when he sees strange beings, wearing what appears to be bathrobes casually walking around in front of him. The whole thing resembles some kind of science fiction universe, but it all looks so _real_.

He strides up to an authoritative looking creature standing behind a counter.

Before he gets a word out, the being cuts him off, sporting sour expression on his face.

“You, Rick, have been banned from the spa. That goes for that kid you brought with you last time as well. Other dimensions caught wind of your little bout with the psychological detoxifier, and it almost ruined our reputation.” 

“What the fuck do you mean? I’ve never been here before in my _life._ ” 

“That’s one hell of an attempt at lying, Rick.”

“I–I don’t know what the URPP fuck is going on, but I guess I’ll fuck off if you can tell me where I can find a liquor store, or any place that has some blow. The stronger the better, I can’t be sober for whatever this is.” 

The creature narrows his eyes at him.

“There are Kalaxian Crystals on dimension XΔ400. You can cut them up into a fine powder and snort them.” 

Rick’s eyes light up at that. “Hell yeah! That’s my kind of shit.” 

The creature sighs, turning away from Rick as he continues attending to other creatures at the counter. 

Rick takes out his portal device, but isn’t sure how to get there exactly, since his foray into this particular dimension was entirely unplanned.

The being glances at him, and senses his confusion. 

“Did you suffer some memory loss recently Rick? Just use your mind and the portal will take you where you want to go. At least, that’s what you, or whatever version of you, said when you came here once.” 

“Okay…” He does what the alien instructs him to do, and it works. 

When he exits the portal, he’s at once surrounded by fields of resplendent crystals. 

He scoops some into his hand, cuts them up with a credit card he plucks out of his wallet, and lets go. The high is extremely brief, however, so he has to work at it to keep it going. 

After what feels like days of experiencing intermittent and frustratingly short highs, he rapidly grows tired of it, and realizes he hasn’t fed himself in days. 

He fiddles with the dial on his portal device and picks another dimension, but the next one is completely barren. 

On his next try, he comes upon another sci-fi-esque environment, but this time he’s even more appalled by what he sees here than by what he observed at the supposed spa. 

What lay before him was a city-like environment populated by others whose physical appearance were exactly like his, as well as teens who look like a younger Morty he had seen in pictures that Beth had sent him on holidays, long before he came down to live with Rick.

He feels like he’s glued to where he’s standing, hardly able to register that there’s hundreds of him, and hundreds of Morty, just walking around like it’s the most normal occurance.

As he’s taking it all in, he spots what looks like a diner in the distance and makes a beeline to it. He takes up a spot in a booth, and a Morty in a car hop outfit goes to serve him, grabbing a pen out of his short hair and resting it on a scrap of paper he pulls out of his pocket. He shifts in the dress awkwardly like it makes him uncomfortable, and Rick knows that Morty back in Miami would wear it better, prouder. If he was with him, Rick knows he’d laugh at this Morty’s sorry display. 

The Morty takes his order, and then Rick gestures for him to lean in closer so only he can hear what he’s about to say. 

“Hey, so, my Morty got fucked up and hit me over the h–head just before I came, and I can’t remember shit. Sorry, this is a little embarrassing, but, uh, where am I?” 

The Morty gives him a puzzled look. 

“Um, you’re at a diner.” 

“No–I mean what _dimension_ is this?” 

“Oh. Your Morty must’ve hit you hard if it’s not obvious. We’re in the citadel.” 

That information reveals nothing to Rick, but he doesn't really know how to push it anymore without sounding any crazier than he already does. Besides, he figures he doesn’t at all want to stay in a dimension where all he saw was countless versions of his grandson.

“Oh, right, I remember now. Hey so, I don’t think I can go back to my dimension because, because my Morty would tear me a EEURPP new one. I can’t remember fuck all right now though–tell me where I could go that’s kind of like earth but not _really_.” 

The waitress Morty looks to the side in thought, then smirks at him. 

“Ever heard of dimension X-20?” 

“No. What’s over there?”

“It’s supposed to be a dimension where you can relive your greatest memories. Heard it’s a l–lot of fun.” 

The Morty gives him an amiable look, and Rick looks away, considering what he says. 

“Huh, okay. I guess there was that legendary Peruvian shit I had in the 80s that I would go back and try again. Thanks for the tip waitress Morty.” 

“Sure thing.” 

Once the Morty walks away, Rick stays to eat his meal, and then points his portal gun on a spot on the wall. The usually elliptical appearance of the portal is disrupted by long bars of static, but once it seems to go back to its normal shape, Rick pays it no mind and goes in.

He finds himself walking through a bedroom, and as he looks around he sees that he’s in his own house, and that the bedroom is his. 

It’s night time, and the clock on the wall says it’s nearly ten p.m. Just then, his phone vibrates on the nightstand by his bed, and he picks it up. It’s a calendar alert displaying the address of the upscale _El Tucàn_ nightclub. It says he’s supposed to be there in fifteen minutes, and he also notes that the year reads 2017. He realizes he’s reliving a hit he’d done a year ago, but this particular one is different, and if his memory serves him well then that must mean–

He hears the chime of his doorbell echo throughout the house. 

When he goes downstairs to answer the door, it turns out to be Morty, just who he thought it might be. He’s surrounded by travel bags, and he smells like the stale air of an airplane cabin. His brown hair is short, grazing the tops of his shoulders, and he’s sporting pink pajama shorts and Keds slip-ons. Most notably, he’s a bit pale, and his nail polish is chipped, details that would quickly change over the next few weeks. 

“Hi grandpa Rick!” He greets cheerily, but it’s evident that he’s drained from the hours of travel. 

“Hey, how was your flight?” Rick replies casually.

“It was good.”

“Great. So let me show you to your EURPP room, but after we have to leave to go do something really quick. I promise it w–won't take long.” 

Morty lets out a long, weary yawn. “But I’m tired, can’t we do it later?” 

“No. Sorry Morty, it’s kind important.” 

“Okay...” He mumbles. 

As Rick directs him into the house, Morty’s eyes widen in amazement. 

“Wow, this place is so huge! How can you afford all this–what do you do for a living grandpa Rick?” 

“I dabble in some business ventures here and there. Uh, you’ll see. Oh, and by the way, just call me Rick from now on. I feel like I get closer to my grave every time you say the word _grandpa_.” 

Morty nods. As soon as he drops off his bags in his room, Rick grabs him and drives them to _Tucàn_. 

The hit goes exactly like it had a year ago, but Rick senses that something’s off. This night, while it was memorable, wasn’t necessarily one of the best nights he’s ever had, meaning the description the waitress Morty gave of this dimension wasn’t quite accurate. And he didn’t get to choose this memory, which is another red flag for him, but he carries on with the memory’s events regardless. 

He’s about to kill his last victim, when someone, the club is too dark to tell exactly _who_ , aims an assault rifle at the pair, killing them instantly.

For a second, everything’s dark, and then Rick wakes up back in his bedroom. It’s dark outside just like the day before, and the hour is still quarter to ten. 

And then like clockwork, his doorbell rings, and he finds himself going through the whole night again with Morty until they get killed once more, and then he wakes up to do it all over again.

He knows what’s happening now. The Morty at the citadel had lied to him. On the third night he points his portal gun at the floor, but nothing happens. He sees the bulb on it has gone dull, but the LED screen is still functional somehow.

He tries everything he can think of to get it to work again, but the device is broken enough to where he can’t go anywhere.

A feeling of dread settles in the pit of his stomach. He now has to figure out how to break this relentless cycle. And even if he does, he’s not sure if he’ll ever be able to leave this dimension.

He comes up with all kinds of possible solutions. He tries small things at first, like coming in from the front of the club instead of the back. He then calls around to see who the mysterious killer is, and he even attempts to bring more firepower at some point, strolling into the club with a guerrilla style machine gun like it’s nothing, but none of it works. 

He even tries not showing up at all, but when he dozes off later on that night, he awakes to the same alert, to the same ring of his doorbell. And to Morty, telling him once more that he’s tired. 

So he stays awake as long as he can, until his eyes hurt and the days pass uneventfully, but somehow he gives into exhaustion without even noticing.

And then he’s back at it again, and again, until he doesn’t even bother to check his phone anymore when it vibrates on his nightstand, until he memorizes the amount of old stains on Morty’s white shoelaces, until everything they do and say just blends together until it becomes endlessly meaningless. 

 

A thick cloud envelops the inside of the old Civic sitting at the parking lot by the beach. The evening sun is opaque with the smoke nearly blocking the view from the windows, and more of it billows out from the burning end of the small, rolled up joint. Long, feminine fingers suck in the steady stream of white clouds, and the woman passes the joint to her companion, who’s sitting next to her as they both cough from the heaviness in their lungs. 

“I know I promised we wouldn’t talk about this, but have you heard anything about Rick? It’s been two weeks.” Morty asks after taking a long hit off the joint. 

His friend, Emily, lets out a disapproving sound and shakes her head. 

“Why are you so hung up on him? Old man’s gonna come around soon enough, and when he’s out, he’ll be like new. Give it some time.” 

“He just hasn’t called or talked to anyone we know, I feel like I’d here something by now.” Morty passes the joint back to her, sounding worried.

“He’s just trying to work through his shit. Maybe being off the grid is good for him. Maybe he’s giving you space.” 

The teen contemplates what she says, but shakes his head. “I don’t know–”

Emily puts a hand on his shoulder. “Look–you love him right?”

Morty nods. 

“Then let him go!” 

“But you don’t understand–”

“Shit, I understand completely. Guys, they’re all the same, stringing you along, making them think you’re the only one, but all a girl needs is a good spliff and a car to hotbox it in. You don’t need a man. Fuck it!” She laughs, and Morty looks at her tanned, freckled face as she gives him a breezy smile. He wishes it was that easy. 

“Yeah. I guess you’re right.” He mutters. He watches the vague outline of the sun setting distantly over the water and can’t help but wonder about Rick, wondering if he’ll really be any different when he sees him again.

When they finish the joint, they walk to the beach to kill some more time before Morty’s shift starts. She tells him, all carefree and loose from their high, that he should forget about Rick. Have some fun for once. And in his hazy state he thinks he’d be up for that.

When he goes to work that night, he puts a little more effort into his dancing than what he usually does, going above and beyond the high standards he sets for himself. 

He notices a young, handsome Puerto Rican guy who had been eying him during his entire set, and goes to him when he’s finished dancing. The fact that he’s sipping an apple Ciroc tips Morty off that he’s a fuckboy, but the teen doesn’t care. 

The guy takes him back to his hotel to fuck, and it’s quick and rough; the way Morty likes it. But it’s not quite right, there’s something about the guy that doesn’t really do much for him, and he finds his mind drifting elsewhere, distracted. 

Somehow, however, he manages to get himself to climax, and he comes with a shout, not paying attention to what he says in the heat of the moment. When he opens his eyes the guy’s expression is one of annoyance.

“Who the fuck is _Rick?_ ” He asks. 

Morty feels a surge of embarrassment rush through him, and he makes a half hearted apology as he rushes out of the room. 

When he goes back to his friend Emily’s house (because he _refuses_ to go stay at Rick’s place, even though it’s empty), he drowns himself in a cheap bottle of vodka, but nods off before he can finish it. 

He dreams of strong hands and white hair, and he knows it should make him angry, but he just feels a sense of longing, and a deep, aching loneliness instead. 

 

The next night, the air is hot and muggy–the humidity fogs up the windows of the small spacecraft that hovers down to the palm tree lined streets of South Beach. A few people gather to watch as the ship lands in the parking lot of the _Madonna_ stripclub. The group is difficult to notice through the foggy glass at first, but once the occupants of the ship notice them, they manage to convince the crowd that the aircraft is a prop for an event at the aforementioned stripclub, causing them to lose interest and leave. 

Once all the bystanders are gone, an older man sporting a lab coat opens the driver’s side door and walks out. When his younger, teenage companion tries to step out as well, the older man stops him. 

“Stay in the URPP car Morty.” He instructs. 

“But I wanna meet that other Morty! Do you think he’s, he’s like a _real_ stripper? Don’t you have to be 21 to do that? Do you think he looks like me?” 

“I doubt his Rick cares that much about trivial shit like the age limit at a strip club. And don’t be stupid, of course he’ll look like you, he’s a Morty.” 

“Okay, but why can’t I come again?” 

“Because _I_ don’t wanna get any shit for bringing in a minor, regardless if that other you is one. We’re trying to lay low here.” 

The teen crosses his arms in a huff. “Fine…” He says, defeated. 

The scientist realizes he isn’t properly dressed for an appearance at a stripclub, and it probably makes him stand out more than he’d like. Ultimately, he figures he can’t do much about it at this point, and strides up to the line in front of a towering, intimidating bouncer. When it’s his turn, the bouncer takes one look at him, and lets him know he’s not allowed in the club. 

“I’ve got strict orders to not let you inside, Rick.” He explains.

“I’m just here to see Morty.” 

“Well, he doesn’t want to see _you_. He’s not dancing right now anyway.” 

“Wait, he’s not here?”

“Nah he is, but he’s in one of the private rooms. You couldn’t get to him if you tried.” 

“Alright...” 

Rick walks away, cocking his head to the side pensively. 

He brings out his portal gun from inside his coat and gets the idea to travel directly to each private room until he reaches the one with Morty in it. He reaches him on his second try. Morty’s got his back turned to him, plucking loose bills from the thin straps in his outfit and gathering them into a stack which he tucks in the back of his bralette. 

The patron who had been sitting and waiting for Morty had been in the portal’s trajectory, and was physically split in half by its sudden appearance exactly where he had been sitting. Rick scrambles to fire up his device again so he can push the man’s halved body into another dimension, and the distant thumping of music manages to conceal the noise. The man had been butchered before he could even notice it, so there wasn’t much sound at all, in fact.

“Sorry give me a second here... Oh, and don’t forget–touching is extra, and we’ve got three minutes.” Morty, oblivious, fixes a stray tassel on his bralette and then turns around to face Rick. 

His expression dissolves quickly into shock, then bitterness when he recognizes who’s sitting in front of him. “What the fuck are you doing here? And what the hell are you wearing?” 

“I–”

“Actually, I don’t give a fuck. I’m calling the bouncer.” The teen reaches for the door, but Rick pulls him back by his waist. 

“Let go of me asshole!” Morty exclaims, thrashing against Rick’s hold and scraping the skin of Rick’s hands with his sharp, manicured nails as he tries to pry the elder’s hand away. 

“Morty, don't leave yet–I’m not who you think I am. I need to talk to you about your Rick, it’s important.” 

“ _My_ Rick? What the fuck are you on right now?” As he says this his head bumps backward in the midst of trying to squirm out of Rick’s grasp, causing his hair to cover Rick’s face so that the latter gets hit with the fragrant smell of pineapple and coconut that’s emanating from his hair. Without thinking, Rick hums appreciatively when he inhales the teen’s tropical scent.

“Ugh. Are you getting off on this?” Morty asks in a disgusted tone. 

Rick twists Morty around abruptly, restraining him by his arms instead instead of his waist now. Wide, makeup lined eyes meet his, and he notices that past the glitter and the dark tan that this Morty is fundamentally built somewhat differently than most others of his ilk. He can’t quite place it just yet, because the teen is still straining against him, but he can feel the latter gives off a kind alluring, androgynous appeal. 

“I’m not–you just, you just smell good. But look, I’m not here to fuck around. Your Rick–he’s got something of mine. I’ll explain everything if you’d just stop moving around so much.” 

“I’m trying to leave, idiot!”

“I know, just–EURPP stop for a minute. It’ll take like three minutes, the length of a lap dance, I swear.”

Morty stills for a moment. Rick can see what makes him stand out now–it’s the feminine shape of his eyes and the soft curve of his jaw; the smooth quality of his voice. And then his ass, which is certainly rounder and a little thicker than other Mortys. And okay, he just said he wasn’t getting off on this, but maybe–

“So before I can explain the issue with your Rick, I need you to understand something first. This might be hard to wrap your head around at first, but there’s infinite versions of us in infinite dimensions. In most cases, I live with you up in Washington with Summer, Beth, and Jerry. Every dimension has a number. Mine is C-137. Or at least it was, originally. Yours is G-45.” Rick explains. 

“Wait–who’s Jerry?”

“You don’t have a Jerry? I’m not gonna lie, I’m pretty jealous of your Rick for not having to deal with him. You guys aren’t missing much.” 

“I don’t believe anything you’re saying right now. Rehab must’ve fucked with your head.” Morty G-45 responds skeptically, crossing his arms.

“Uh, wow, I take that back, I’m actually not jealous of your Rick. I’d take Jerry over rehab any day. I’d even get fucking Cronenberged again, sheesh.” 

“Seriously? I don’t know what you’re trying to play at here, but it has to stop. You’re Rick, you’ve always been _Rick_.”

“Yes and no Morty, it’s complicated. I’m a version of Rick, but I’m not _your_ Rick, specifically.”

“Well, why don’t you prove you’re not my Rick then?” 

“Alright…” Rick stands up and points his portal gun in the air. 

“Can your Rick do _this?_ ”

A flash of green bursts in front of them and a portal opens up. 

“Come on.” Rick urges, gently guiding a perplexed Morty G-45 through the portal.

When they get to the other side, they find themselves in a cavernous starship. a crowd of strange, alien-like beings walk in packs through its wide, futuristic halls. G-45 looks around in awe, appearing somewhat overwhelmed by it all.

“I’ve never seen him do whatever the fuck it is you just did, but I wouldn’t put it past him to hide it from me if he could. What the hell is this anyway?” 

“It’s a–another dimension, more specifically one that’s on a knockoff Millenium Falcon. I thought this was the most dramatic representation of an alien race I could show you, off the top of my head. Anyways, it looks like interdimensional travel isn’t in your Rick’s wheelhouse, so there’s that. I guarantee you he wouldn’t hide this from you if he knew about it G-45.” 

Morty turns to look at C-137. “This can’t be real.” 

“Oh. It is.” 

“I still think you’re full of shit. And can you just call me _Morty?_ Fucking hate being called by some random number.” 

“Sure, I guess. It’ll get kind of complicated when you meet my Morty though so I won’t make any guarantees. Anyway, I don’t have anything else to show you, I mean, I think this is good enough proof that I’m not your Rick, aside from the fact that I’m not tan.”

“Hm. Can you take us back to the club though? I can’t decide if I want to believe you when I’m distracted by these–these _aliens_ walking around everywhere.”

“Sure.” 

They go back to the stripclub, back to the private room, and Rick sits back down while G-45 paces around, thinking.

“So, you have any other ideas that I can use to prove that I’m not your fucking Rick? I still think you should be pretty convinced by now–“

“Oh–I have one. Jerk me off. Only Rick knows how to do it right.”

“Uh. O-kay... So a sexual relationship then. Definitely not BRRP judging. I always knew it was a possibility among Ricks and Mortys.”

“What, you don’t fuck your Morty?” 

“No. We’re not–this isn’t some _Flowers in the Attic_ type shit Morty. Most Mortys are too sexually repressed anyway so it wouldn’t matter if I wanted him.” 

“But you do want him though, don’t you? Don’t worry, you’re gonna get some of him now.” G-45’s tone changes into a sensual drawl, and he goes to sit on C-137’s lap, legs spread out. He stretches his arms out, resting them on C-137’s neck. 

Everything is happening a little too fast for the elder scientist, and he needs a minute to get in the right frame of mind for a sexual encounter with a teenager who’s supposed to be his grandson.

“Okay I’ll do it if that’s what it _really_ takes, just give me a second though. Let me get in the headspace for a–a fucking handjob that definitely won’t prove anything you haven’t realized already.” 

“Go ahead.” The teen mutters, wiggling his hips a little, brushing against C-137’s crotch so it makes the latter’s breath hitch in his throat.

C-137 drinks in the sight of this Morty then, wanting to take his time before he starts. 

He notices his white, chiffon bralette that’s transparent enough to show off his flat chest. Rhinestone tassels with metallic palm trees hang down from the fabric, and his navel ring has a shimmering palm tree charm to match. The rest of his outfit, including his thigh highs are also white. It’s got a vintage feel, maybe from the 80s if he was trying to place it. 

He pushes G-45 closer to him so he can look over his shoulder. He rubs his thumb over the ‘R’ tattoo on the teen’s buttcheeck. 

“Was it your Rick’s idea to get this?” He murmurs, and G-45 nods silently. 

He decides he’ll ask more questions about it later, preferring instead to smooth back Morty’s platinum strands, which have been curled into beachy waves that accentuate his summery outfit. He notices he’s missed a strand, and when he goes to push it away, G-45 takes a hand off his neck to help him. 

C-137 catches his palm then, holding it up loosely in between his thumb and his forefinger so he can see his soft pink manicure, it’s sheen visible even under the dim light.

He then hooks his finger on the straps of his thong, and G-45 leans up so he can get them off. 

With G-45 naked now from the waist down, C-137 can see that his dick is a nice size comparable to his petite figure, and he thinks he’s in the mood now, having fully seen that this Morty looks like a fucking wet dream when he really gets a look at him. And in that sense, he can separate this Morty from his actual grandson and reduce the guilt he’s guaranteed to feel afterwards.

“Well then? Get on with it.” Morty demands, and Rick can sense him hardening under his gaze.

“I am, Jesus. You really, really got a mouth on you don’t you?”

“Yeah and I give the best fucking blowjobs with it, too bad for you and your dimension I guess.” 

“Uh huh, sure.” He says trying to sound nonchalant, but the information travels straight to his dick, and he tries to ignore the strain in his pants. 

Morty reaches behind his bra strap and gives him a small bottle of lube. C-137 squeezes some onto his hand and uses it to slick his hand down the shaft experimentally. He has no idea what a teenager like him would really want, so he just twists his hand in a way he himself likes, hoping it’s good enough. Ultimately though, he decides that whatever this Morty likes doesn’t matter–he can tell the teen believes now that he’s not his Rick. He’s likely just using him to release some tension, since his Rick has been missing for a few weeks, and that’s enough time for a teenager to build up some sexual frustration. 

C-137 decides that he doesn’t mind being taken advantage of this way though, not in the least. 

But G-45 lets out a frustrated noise, putting his hand over C-137’s, and guiding it down a certain way that makes him let out a satisfied sigh. 

“Do it like that…” G-45 whispers, and C-137 tries to mimic his movements, but it’s not right, and the teen moves his hand away and replaces it with his own.

“I’m just going to do it myself, and you can watch, maybe learn a thing or two for your own Morty someday.” 

“God, okay, sorry that I don’t fuck my grandson and don’t know how to jerk off a teenager.” 

“So you’re telling me this…” Morty grabs C-137’s bulging crotch, clenching it. “ _Isn’t_ because you’ve never thought about fucking a Morty then?” And it makes the scientist grit his teeth in arousal. 

“Okay, you UGGHHP got me. Maybe a hypersexualized version of my g–grandson that’s so far removed from being anything _like_ him does turn me on. And I’d have to have no pulse to not get hard with the way you’re grabbing my–“ 

And G-45 cuts him off, clashing their lips together while stroking himself at the same time. C-137’s senses are assaulted by the sugary taste of cherry candy on the teen’s tongue. He can feel the muffled vibrations coming from Morty’s throat, and _God_ , he doesn’t think his trousers feel any tighter right now.

And he does want to see this Morty get off after all, the idea of having his own Morty this way blossoming in his mind, and he finds himself taking his mouth off of the teen and peering down, cataloging every swipe of his thumb, every flick of his wrist. 

Soon enough he comes into his palm, and then pushes it onto C-137s parted mouth, makes him savor his release. It’s unexpected–C-137 is taken aback when feels the wetness on his lips. 

“Try it. It’s probably what your Morty’s is like.” The teen says, and Rick decides, what the hell, might as well savor it if it’s already in his face. It’s salty with a hint of sweetness, making him wonder if that’s really how all Mortys must taste like, and now his mind is wandering...

G-45’s still a little short of breath from having come, but he slides his bottoms back on and says: 

“Okay, you’re definitely not my Rick. What is it you have to tell me?” 

It throws C-137 completely off guard, the shifting mood being completely jarring, and it takes a moment for him to collect himself.

“Oh–Uh, right... So.. Remember that portal I opened up a few minutes ago?” 

Morty nods.

“So that’s basically the path to other dimensions, I use this portal gun–” He gestures to a device he pulls from his coat pocket and continues, “as a means to travel interdimensionally. I have a spare that I use on occasions when I don’t want anyone, not even my Morty, to know what I’m up to. Anyways, Morty and I heard your Rick makes some really strong cocaine, so I wanted to come try it. You may have seen us fly over Miami Beach I’d say, uh, almost two weeks ago at this point.”

“Wait, I did see you! We were at the Fontainebleau, I fucking wasn’t tripping like Rick said!” 

“Yeah, that was us. Anyway, my dipshit of a Morty somehow found the spare and dropped it into the water. I had made that one more recently, so it has some water resistant qualities, but when I saw it sink into the ocean, I thought that shit was toast. Turns out, through some m–m–miracle, it still works, because your Rick found it and is now using it. But I can’t get a read on where he is, and that portal gun has some sensitive information on it, so I want it back. I need your help on this–there’s no telling where he ended up, and I have feeling you being there could come in handy somehow.” 

G-45 shrugs. “Okay. Well I have to finish my shift, and then we can go.” 

C-137 stares at him in disbelief. “Seriously? Your Rick could be dying right now and you’re going to take your damn time? We’ve already wasted enough of it with your little jerk session just now.”

“Yes, I am.” G-45 replies simply, shifting off Rick so he can leave.

C-137 grabs him by the wrist, tone serious. “Hey. Whatever your Rick did to you, you have to put it aside. Unless you want him to die, and I know you don’t. I can tell he’s alive because the portal gun has been active in one, singular location, but for all we know, he might not have much time left.” 

Morty glances away, looking torn, but he knows C-137 may be right. 

“Okay.” He agrees, defeated. 

C-137 gets up, brushes some glitter off his trousers, then follows Morty to the backdoor. 

“If you wait out here maybe you can take care of that problem you got down there while I get ready to leave, yeah?” G-45 says. 

C-137 looks down, the swell in his trousers having gone down some, but not completely, and he curses silently, stuffing a hand inside his pants as G-45 walks away laughing. 

Later, when G-45 comes back he’s changed into a new outfit that’s somehow marginally less revealing than the last, trading the bralette with a crop top and a fur coat, and the thong for a pink bikini bottom. 

C-137 decides not to remark on how revealing the outfit is as they walk back to the space cruiser. At least it shows off his tattoo. He privately thinks it’s arousing–having his name on this Morty’s ass.

When C-137 gets to the driver’s side door of the ship, he’s about to tell his Morty to get out so the other teen can get in and sit between them on the dash, but the other Morty just climbs over him and slides down to the dash without bothering to be polite. 

“Woah are y–you Miami Morty? Holy shit.” Morty C-137 exclaims. 

“In the flesh.” The other teen responds, sounding bored. 

“You’re so, I–, you look–”

“Like the hottest version of yourself you’ve ever laid eyes on? Yeah Morty, you hit the nail on the head.” Rick C-137 mutters as he guides the cruiser up into the sky.

“Yeah…” His Morty mumbles, blushing. 

G-45 looks at his other version of himself–apparently the one that’s standard in most dimensions, and feels sorely disappointed by his apparent blandness. 

“Wow. Looks like this one makes good use of his right hand. Do all Mortys look so virginal?” He comments snidely.

“Wait, so you’re a Morty but you’re n–not a virgin?” Morty C-137 asks.

“Are the two mutually exclusive or something?”

“Kind of.” 

“Then no. I lost my virginity to my Rick actually, he made my first time feel so– _mmmm_...” G-45 punctuates his statement with an overly dramatic moan, jutting his hips out and throwing his head back for further exaggeration, locking eyes with the other Morty all the while.

Morty C-137 gawks at him in silent shock. 

“Alright drop the fucking URPP act. I think you’ve mentally scarred him enough already.” The older scientist cuts in.

“Hold on, do you really… Um, with your–with your Rick?” Morty C-137 whispers nervously. 

The other teen smirks and positions himself so he’s speaking softly into the shell of C-137’s ear. 

“Yeah, and we don’t use a rubber.” 

“Gross.” C-137 squirms a little in his seat, making his counterpart chuckle in response. 

“It feels so much _better_ that way though.” G-45 licks his lips as he whispers it. 

“Seriously, would you two quit it already? I’m trying to think. I need to remember the last places I went with that other portal gun.” Rick C-137 demands, and G-45 gets out of the other Morty’s space.

“Okay, I got it. Off to the Kalaxian fields!”

But when they get there, they don’t find Rick G-45, or anywhere else they go for that matter. 

C-137 decides to try something else, something that would be his last resort. 

“It’s risky, but maybe we should go look in the citadel next. Maybe a Rick or a Morty saw him.” 

“What’s the citadel?” G-45 asks.

“You’ll URRP see.” 

Once at the citadel, and after G-45’s predictable freak out over seeing other versions of himself, they ask around for the other Rick. No one seems to know about his whereabouts, until they reach a diner close to the entrance of the citadel.

They approach the waitress Morty that had tricked G-45 in the parking lot, and his vehement denial of knowing his whereabouts raises C-137’s suspicions, and it makes him pry more. 

Eventually they all catch on to his shifty behavior and corner him until he breaks.

“Okay! It was me. I tricked him into going to X-20.” 

C-137’s eyes go wide with shock. “X-20…” he grabs the collar of the Morty’s dress angrily. “You asshole. That’s a time loop dimension! Why did you tell him to go there?” 

“He said his Morty had lashed out, gotten _‘fucked up.’_ I know what that’s code for! That Morty was in trouble.”

“Well no one asked you to be a hero, waitress _Morty_.” Rick C-137 says. 

“I-I thought I was doing the right thing, we Mortys need to look out for each other. President Morty’s changing things, and we have to stand up against the oppression of Ricks.” 

Rick C-137 scoffs.

“Wow, a Morty for a president? Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Hey! We’re not as stupid as you think we are. We can do anything!” The waitress Morty replies.

“Yeah. He’s right!” All three teens chant in unison.

“Sure, go ahead, pat yourselves on the back, jerk each other off if you have to, but don’t forget that it was _this_ little asshole who tricked G-45’s Rick so he could gain some false sense of accomplishment, so you probably shouldn’t be getting so fucking starry eyed.” Rick points at waitress Morty as he says it, who flounders under his admonishing stare.

“I’m sorry, o–okay!” He exclaims.

“Wait, but why would my Rick lie and say that I hit him?” G-45 asks.

“Um, I think h–he was just trying to play off that he didn’t know he was at the citadel by making up a fake story.” The waitress Morty explains.

“Makes sense. Still doesn’t change the fact that we have to go clean up your mess though.” C-137 says bitterly. 

Waitress Morty averts his eyes, appearing dejected.

“I hope you find him. I’m sure you already know, but X-20 is safe for anyone who’s there while someone else is experiencing the time loop. Anyway, good luck, and s–sorry, again…”

The trio acknowledge the information warily, but without anything else to go off on they decide to take it at face value, and risk going to X-20 anyway.

When they get there, they hide in a dark corner of the G-45s’ front yard so as not to be noticed. When they look to the house, G-45 recognizes the scene before him instantly as the first night he met Rick. It’s bizarre seeing himself from a year ago walk up to Rick’s house with all of his belongings, and it makes him feel self conscious knowing that the other pair are reliving such a defining moment with him. 

They all watch him enter the house with his Rick to drop off his stuff, and then see them leave together shortly after.

“Alright, so it’s pretty obvious this is a memory from the first time you guys met. And if this is a–a standard time loop situation, then wherever place it is you’re going to is important for the sake of breaking the loop. G-45, know where his keys are to his other cars? I _know_ with this Rick’s drug money, he has to have plenty of them.” Rick C-137 says. 

“Um, so we end up going to a shootout, do you think it’s safe to follow us? What if _we_ get killed?” G-45 replies.

“I guess that’s just the risk we’ll have to take, unless anyone has any better ideas.” 

Both Mortys are silent.

“Alright. EURPP thought so. Let’s get to a car before loop starts again.” 

“Um, my Rick only has two other cars, actually. I don’t know where the keys are to either, but you could hotwire the Miura. It’s an old car.” 

“Holy shit–a Miura? Your Rick might be an asshole like the rest of us, but m–motherfucker has EURRP _taste_. You want me to hotwire a vintage supercar that’s worth over hundreds of thousands of–“

“Rick! This isn’t real life, I think it’ll be fine.” Morty C-137 cuts in.

“I know, I’m not _stupid_ Morty, it’s the principle of it, fuck…” Rick C-137 mutters as they walk to the garage. 

When they get inside the Miura, Rick carefully reaches the underside of the steering column and goes to work. 

Eventually, the car engine roars to life, and they make it to the club in time to hear the continuous staccato of gunfire coming from inside.

“I think we should enter from the kitchen entrance in the back, that should get us right to where we were that night.” G-45 instructs. 

The C-137 duo nod, and they do as G-45 says, and sure enough when they exit the kitchen they see Rick G-45 and his time loop Morty. 

Rick G-45 is crouching behind a small circular table which has been tipped over on its side like an oversized shield. The younger Morty is kneeling next to him, knees tucked into his chest so that he’s completely concealed. He looks sorely out place, because for one he’s not even facing the same direction as his Rick, and also because he’s shaking, eyes wide like saucers as he stares straight ahead. He’s not really fixing his gaze on anything in particular; just paralyzed in place by anxiety as his Rick lets loose a wave of bullets above him. 

But then, because he’s facing the back door, he catches the trio appear in front of him.

“What the _fuck_ …” He breathes, and he’s looking straight at Morty G-45 as he says it.

Rick G-45 turns slightly when he hears his Morty speak, and as soon as he makes eye contact with the trio, him and his Morty unexpectedly vanish, right where they’re huddled. The former cacophony of gunfire is replaced by indistinguishable chatter and loud music, as if G-45 and his automatic had never crossed the threshold of the dancefloor. 

“Did we fix it?” Morty C-137 asks.

“I don’t know, let’s go check.” Rick C-137 says.

When they get back to the house, they see the G-45 pair leave again.

All three let out a collective groan at the sight of what it implies.

“Fuck…” Rick groans, dragging a hand over his face in frustration. “Screw this shit. I’m just going into the house and finding my portal gun. Fuck trying to break this time loop! I don’t why I’m sticking my neck out for another Rick and Morty I barely know.” he exclaims, throwing his hands up in defeat.

“Hey! Don’t give up _now_ Rick. We’re too involved now to just end it here.” Morty C-137 replies, grabbing his Rick by the arm as he tries to walk towards the house.

“Look, maybe he’s right. You guys can leave, I guess I can just figure this own on my own.” G-45 mutters dejectedly. 

“No. We’re going to help you. Rick’s just being an asshole. Come on, we’ll figure it out.” Morty C-137 reassures, and Rick swears under his breath but doesn’t attempt again to leave. 

“Alright, so, when G-45 looks at us, the loop resets itself.” Morty C-137 says, thinking. 

“Right. But when his Morty saw us, nothing happens.” Rick C-137 remarks, continuing his Morty’s line of logic. 

They all go quiet, lost in thought. Then G-45 speaks up.

“I have an idea. If the loop restarts when Rick looks at us, but not when this version of me does it, then that must mean some of the rules don’t apply to him because he’s just part of Rick’s memory. And that would make sense because he also doesn’t understand that he’s in a time loop like Rick does. I think… I think I want to try something with him when the cycle starts again.”

They wait, and when G-45 sees the slightly younger version of himself approaching the house from the street, he goes to him, and the other two follow.

G-45 stops and turns abruptly.

“What I’m going to try is really personal. I think I need to do this alone. Sorry.” 

“So you _don’t_ need our help then?” Rick C-137 questions, crossing his arms. 

“I don’t know if it’ll work, so you might as well stay.” 

C-137 shrugs and mumbles something noncommittal, and G-45 goes to his past self before he gets to ring the doorbell. 

“Hey, don’t go in yet. I need to talk to you. This might sound weird, but I’m the person you’re about to become. No–that’s too dramatic. I meant to say, I’m future you. Like, I’m you but from the future.” 

His past self furrows his brow in confusion. “What the hell? Are you–do you need help?” He asks.

“No! Just listen to me. I’m you from the future.” G-45 replies adamantly.

“Huh? how’s that even possible?” 

“Just–I can prove it to you. In tenth grade you got mono from making out with one of the senior jocks, but you were so embarrassed you didn’t tell anyone, and Summer had to take you to the hospital because it almost fucked up your spleen. And there was that one time forever ago when mom caught you doing whip-its with the drama club, and you were grounded for like a month. And, oh, you have a mole right above your left butt cheek. See–”

“Okay, okay, I get it! You don’t have to show me your butt. I think anyone could’ve told you that stuff about me though.” 

“Fair enough. Well how about this then…”

G-45 leans forward and whispers in his ear, and his past self gives him a look of astonishment.

“ _Oh my God_ , how do you know that?” 

“Because I’m _you_.”

“Aw geez! What the hell’s going on?” 

“I’m not sure, All I know is that we’re in a time loop. But, anyway, you have to listen to me. When you walk through that door, Rick is going to turn your life upside down. If you do what I tell you though, maybe… Maybe he’ll fuck up things up less for both of you.” 

His past self stares at him skeptically.

“Wait, is Rick seriously that bad? I–I’ve talked to him on the phone a little here and there, and he sounds cool! He said, he said he’ll teach me how to use a gun, and he’ll buy me whatever clothes I want.”

“Yes and no. He’s cool, yeah. I’d even say he’s great. But it sucks being around him sometimes. Specially when you realize you’re in love with him, and then he gets even shittier. But look, if you do what I say I promise you it’ll hurt less to be with him.”

His past self nods. “I don’t know about that l–love part, but alright, I’m listening.”

“When you go in there, he’s going to tell you that he has to take you to go do something important, and it’s not good. Don’t be alarmed, but Rick, he’s not what you think he is. He has associations with all kinds of criminal organizations–narcs, cartels, the mafia, you fucking name it. And he’s a big time cocaine distributor, so he’s got a lot of enemies. He goes on kills all the time, taking out any and everyone who he thinks is a threat. He’s dangerous, and he plans to bring you along to a shootout. But you just turned sixteen. You don’t need that kind of life, you shouldn’t have to wind up dropping out of school, I mean you love being a stripper but–”

“Love being a _what?_ ” 

“Uh–nevermind that! The point is, you shouldn’t let Rick take you to that club, to the assassination. When he argues with you, stand up for yourself. Tell him you’re going to sleep, and he can take care of it on his own. Tell him to fuck off if you have to! Shit, I don’t know, just make sure he goes without you!”

His past self considers him thoughtfully, and then nods slowly. 

“Okay, I trust you. I’ll do it.”

“I have to go before Rick notices me, but you _promise_ you’ll make him go on his own?” 

“Yeah, I promise.” 

G-45 beams at him, and then pulls him into a quick hug. 

As G-45 turns away to leave, he hears the chime of the doorbell, and walks to the trio’s hiding spot to watch it all unfold.

This time, when his past self goes inside with Rick, minutes pass without anyone coming back out. 

“What did you say to previous self, G-45? They’ve been in there for a _pre–tty_ long time.” Rick C-137 mutters. 

G-45 doesn’t respond, eyes trained on the front door. 

More time passes, but then finally, Rick G-45 comes out alone this time. He’s angry when he storms out, but then he stops when he’s halfway down the driveway, peers over his shoulder for a moment. Then he’s crossing his arms like he’s reflecting on something.

“Huh. This could be it actually... God, why didn’t I ever think of going alone?” He muses aloud to no one in particular. 

Morty G-45 sighs and rolls his eyes. The C-137 pair notice his disappointment, but refrain from commenting.

And so, after some time passes, they see G-45 drive back to the house, and their surroundings being to crumble away, unearthing a deep, black void as their environment degenerates all around them. The former Morty awakens groggily as the walls of the house gently fall away, and the entire structure begins to gradually compress itself and disperse into nothingness. 

Rick G-45 goes to his side. 

He grabs the sides of his shoulders. “Morty… I’m sorry.” 

And he doesn’t need to clarify what he’s apologizing for, the time loop Morty’s smiling wistfully like he understands completely, and it makes Rick G-45’s eyes well up. 

And then sure enough, there’s nothing left of his grandson, but Rick G-45 remains there staring at the now empty spot where he had been sitting. 

The trio approach him cautiously, unsure if they should interrupt his private moment of melancholy, but they all know that they need to get out of X-20 as soon as possible, so Rick C-137 takes up the uncomfortable task of interfering. 

“Hey G-45, seems like you’re going through a lot there, but uh, we’re here to take you back to your dimension, and I want my BRPP portal gun back.” 

Rick G-45 whips around to face them, the surprise in his expression falters when he sees his Morty.

Rick G-45 comes closer to him, reaching out for his arms. 

“Are you even real? What are you doing here?” He asks, touching his Morty’s forearm experimentally as if to test his humanity.

“Yeah I’m fucking real, asshole. And are you only apologizing to fake versions of me now?” Morty G-45 retorts, but then his face softens. “Did you even mean that?” He asks quietly.

“Uh, okay, sorry to interrupt this little r–reunion, but everyone needs to listen up.” C-137 cuts in, waving his hands in the air obnoxiously to get everyone’s attention. 

“You guys can continue your conversation later, but I decided we’re going back to our dimension for the night so I can keep a close eye on Rick G-45. I’ve never encountered anyone using a damaged portal gun. You seem fine, but I’d still like to keep an eye on you for at least a few hours just to make sure nothing’s fucked up. We also really need to go before another time loop starts, it could literally get triggered any second, so let’s dip!” 

C-137 opens the portal, and they all go through.

They arrive at on the front lawn of what looks to be the Smith family home up north, unchanged from what Morty G-45 recalls it looking like. 

It’s dark out, and the suburban street is silent aside from the indistinct sounds of bugs and the occasional car passing by. 

“So everyone’s asleep, but you guys can stay out h–here to talk out your feelings or whatever, just come inside when you’re done.” Rick C-137 says, leaving them both with his Morty.

The G-45 duo nod as the other two walk towards the door. 

Morty C-137 glances back when they get to the front door, and he sees Rick G-45 pull his Morty into a tight embrace.

“I wish you would get that emotional when I saved you from stuff!” He exclaims as they go inside. 

“Yeah. Maybe if we were fucking dating each other.” Rick C-137 mutters.

Maybe...

Alone now in the yard, Rick G-45 pulls back from Morty, and they share an awkward silence as either is unsure what to do or say next.

“I’m pissed off at you Rick, but I’m also glad you’re here. I don’t know…” The teen mumbles. 

“Morty, I meant what I said back there, I am sorry. I should... I should listen to you more.” 

“You think? If you would’ve stayed in rehab, we wouldn’t gotten in that time loop mess! And I had to be the one to figure it out, of course. I bet you would’ve died in there never realizing you should’ve left me behind.” 

“I know, and I’m grateful for that, trust me, but there’s no way I would’ve stayed in rehab. You know that as much as I do.”

Morty throws his hands up in frustration. 

“That’s the problem. You can’t commit to anything can’t you? Not even me.” 

“Oh come on Morty, _don’t_ –”

“No! I told you I _loved_ you. I saved your ass so many times when you nearly drank yourself to death, and you still couldn’t get it together.”

“Look, I know I fucked up. But you’re too young for shit like _love_. You don’t really… really know what you’re saying.” 

“If getting a tattoo of your name on my ass cheek, dropping out of school for you, and losing my virginity to you isn’t love then what is it?”

“A lot of _baaad_ decisions.” Rick’s shaking his head as he says it, and it sparks a hot flare of rage in Morty’s chest. 

“Seriously? I could’ve had a normal relationship with someone my own age, I could’ve lost my virginity-“

“ _Virginity_ is a religious construct used to make people feel special about fucking someone else. Don’t make it more than what it is.”

“Is that all you think it was? That it was some meaningless bullshit–”

“No. I mean, kind of. Morty, if you really wanna go there, then _every time_ we fuck is special. Because it’s you, and it’s great, but me taking your virginity shouldn’t be so... I mean, you’re acting like you didn’t actually _want_ to give it up to me.”

Morty looks away, eyes getting glassy. He doesn’t respond.

“Do you regret it, that first time?” Rick asks softly. 

“No. But maybe I should.”

And the memory is there in quick flash: Rick, in his convertible picking up Morty after his high school’s Homecoming dance. He spots the teen with another youth from his class in the dark by the side of the school gym. Morty’s pulling his pants down and kneeling in front of the guy’s crotch. 

They guy’s harsh with him, careless. Doesn’t set a pace that’s good for Morty, and when he’s close he shoves Morty off of him, and ignores him in favor of finishing himself off. 

Rick couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Livid, he drove them to an empty parking lot near the school, and told the teen he couldn’t let people take advantage of his body like that, needed to make people _work_ for him, because he was worth it. 

One thing leads to another, neglected hormones at work when Morty asks him to show him the correct way to get fucked, to show him what he’s really worth. And Rick does, right in the backseat, bursting open something between them that lay dormant beneath the surface. Something that Rick would come back again and again for. 

“Why don’t you regret it?” Rick asks.

“I already said it ashole, it’s because I love you.” 

“I just–I don’t deserve you Morty.” 

“I know, but you’re stuck with me.” 

“Yeah... Well, if we’re stuck with each other, then I wanna make things alright between us.” Rick says as he tips Morty’s face onto his, their foreheads touching. He wipes a stray tear from the teen’s cheek, and he’s not sure how, or when, or what will make things okay, but he thinks he wants to try for Morty. 

“Okay…” The teen replies, yawning drowsily. 

The duo determine then that they’re too fatigued from everything they’ve gone through that day, and resolve to table their discussion for later. For now, Morty’s appeased by Rick’s apology, and for his part Rick’s just happy to have Morty at his side, despite everything. 

They go back into the house to find blankets and pillows covering the living room couch and the carpet beside it. Rick decides to take up a spot on the floor so Morty can have the couch, and they quickly fall asleep.

 

It’s past midnight, and C-137 has just realized he mistakenly left his extra flask of whiskey in the living room by the television. When he walks down, he tries his best to stay silent so as not to wake the G45 pair. The effort proves irrelevant, as both are far from sleeping. C-137’s hand pauses on his flask on the coffee table when soft, barely audible moans grab his attention. The tan, long haired Morty is positioned above the other Rick, straddling his hips. Rick G-45 has his head thrown back onto the cushions, face tucked under his forearm, the other placed firmly on his Morty’s thigh as the latter drives his hips up and down his Rick’s length. 

He feels like a sleazy voyeur, but he hangs back to watch them for a moment. 

At some point, Morty G-45 notices him when he happens to glance in his direction. He stops for a second, and C-137 feels like he’s frozen in place. He’s about to will himself to leave, but right then Morty G-45 smirks at him. He arches his back dramatically, keeping himself up by holding onto his Rick’s legs. He bites his lip, bearing down on him more vigorously than before. Muffled, fleeting sounds ratchet up to passionate cries, and he doesn’t take his eyes off C-137 for a second of it. 

Morty G-45 eventually bows forward so that his cheek is resting on his Rick’s chest. Still gazing towards C-137, he says: “Wish you’d get closer Rick.” 

“That’s not, not possible…” His Rick breathes. 

“I think we can try though.” 

And C-137 recognizes the statement isn’t directed at the other Rick, but at him, and a warmth runs down his spine. 

“Come on…” Morty G-45 urges, as he continues grinding his hips. 

C-137 doesn’t notice when he starts moving towards them, feet moving at their own accord.

He goes to stand right in front of G-45, and in the dark he can see his blown out pupils, the sweat pooling in the dip of his collarbones. The teen shifts up to meet him and pushes their mouths together. It’s not a kiss really, it’s more so G-45 whimpering and gasping into his open mouth in a way that makes C-137’s erection strain painfully in his pants. He pushes stray tresses away from the teen’s face, and captures his lips so that his cries finally dissolve into the other’s tongue. C-137 savors the lingering sweetness of butterscotch on his breath. 

G-45 surges forward as much as he can, manicured nails dig into the fabric of C-137’s jacket as he tries to gain purchase. C-137 leans further down to close the awkward distance, grasping the couch’s armrest. All the while, he concentrates on stifling any evidence that he’s there. For some reason it turns him on more to know his counterpart is unaware of his presence, or the fact that they’re sharing his Morty. 

G-45 breaks the kiss and starts unbuckling C-137’s belt. He gestures for him to step closer to the side of the couch the teen is on, putting him potentially in the other Rick’s view, but he goes anyway. G-45 hasn’t stopped riding his Rick, though, and his actions are clumsy under the dull lighting. He tries to get a hold of C-137’s underwear, but grabs at his bulging member through the cotton of his boxers instead, making C-137 elicit an involuntary groan. 

Rick G-45 jerks his arm off of his face, spotting C-137 immediately. At first he appears somewhat taken aback by the fact that he’s there, but then his demeanor turns smug, and he gives the other a sly grin. 

“So there’s not enough of me to go around Morty?” He questions through clenched teeth, raking the blunt edge of his nails harshly into the teen’s skin causing him to let out a choked sob. C-137 sees G-45’s dick twitch when his Rick leaves bright red streaks down his thigh, and shit, this Morty likes it rough. The fact sends a spark directly to C-137’s dick, and it speaks to his own masochistic tendencies. 

“No Rick, I wanna fuck every version of you.” 

“Well if you put it that way, I guess since we’re the same person it’s technically not sharing, and I’ll just have to, have to let it happen.” 

They’re now both looking up expectantly at C-137.

“C-137, y–you heard him. Get your dick out.” The other Rick demands, emphasizing his point with a dizzying buck of his hips onto G-45’s ass. 

“Uh–yeah–need a second to process what your Morty just said, I don’t know how you could not call that out, that he wants to fuck all of us, that’s fucking–”

He’s abruptly cut off by a wet heat enveloping him, Morty’s laving his warm tongue around his member. 

“Shit, shit. Your Morty’s so fucking, ah, good.” C-137 glimpses G-45’s hollowed out cheeks, and he can barely stand it.

“Fuck yeah he is, but you want to let the whole house know, asshole? Keep your damn voice down.” The other Rick warns, thumb circling over the tip of G-45’s dick and he’s panting out Rick’s name. Their name. 

“Oh so I have to stay quiet, but your Morty can just keep, hah, acting like he’s on some Pornhub feature?” His voice falters when G-45 swallows him whole, and he can’t believe he’s even able to carry a conversation right now.

“Morty likes to pretend he’s a little pornstar when he knows other people are watching us fuck, he’s a–” But Rick G-45 doesn’t complete the thought. His hips stutter and he forces his eyes shut, tensing up as he comes apart with a deep groan. He holds his Morty down as the teen clenches around him, milking him for all he’s worth.

G-45 comes off of C-137’s dick with a loud pop while his Rick shudders through the aftershock of his orgasm underneath him, and C-137 whimpers from loss of contact. 

“He’s a _what?_ ” Morty bites out, hand still on C-137’s leaking erection.

“A little perv. You know you URPP are Morty.” Rick G-45 is lazily rolling his hips as he says it, making sure his come goes farther inside him. 

“So are you asshole–ah–fuck, I’m gonna, I’m gonna come!” And G-45’s locked eyes with C-137 again, biting his lip theatrically and moaning with high pitched emphasis once more. But his face is awash with true, unbridled ecstasy as he climaxes, and his come spurts all over his Rick’s chest. The latter swipes a finger across his skin, picking up some of the come and bringing it to C-137’s lips. 

C-137 laps it up, humming in satisfaction. 

And then G-45 moves his mouth back onto to him to finish him off, and C-137 is aching for it, needs that blissful release more than he could imagine. All that tension built up with his own Morty, all of the forbidden thoughts in the crevices of his mind compound into this moment. And yeah, maybe he should be sharing this moment with his own Morty, but when the time finally comes for them he’ll be a less pent up, reckless version of himself. He knows his Morty needs that–needs a more careful, gentle touch for his first time. 

He watches the G-45 teen’s throat bob up and down as he devours his come, and he images his Morty doing the same someday. 

If that day ever comes. 

“Oh man, I think you’re going to have to get a new couch C-137.” The other Rick points to a few spots of wetness on the fabric. 

“Eh, just give it some Plan B.” G-45 says, and the pair chuckles as they watch C-137 try to rub it off to no avail. 

C-137 sighs, giving up. 

“Alright, well, this was fun. Don’t UURP forget to put your clothes back on, if you don’t want everyone flipping their shit tomorrow. Adios.” 

“See ya.” The duo on the couch say in unison. 

As C-137 turns to go he hears the G-45s quietly carry on conversing with each other, laughing intermittently while evidently enjoying each other’s company. 

As he gets farther away, he turns his head to steal a quick glance at them, and when he sees Morty G-45 smiling and nipping at his Rick’s jaw he feels a flash of jealousy he didn’t realize was there. 

Maybe he should be grateful instead, because having met the G-45 pair, now he knows unequivocally that he wants Morty. _His_ Morty. And C-137 knew if his Morty got out of his own head then he may just want him too. Maybe, just maybe, the other Rick and Morty would leave their mark on the teen and he’d come to the discovery on his own. 

And he hopes for him and Morty’s sake that he won't be proven otherwise. 

 

The following morning, the G-45 duo make plans to return to their own dimension, but not before they say their goodbyes and meet the rest of the C-137 family. They’re friendly enough, and even when Beth asks Morty G-45: “Does your Beth let you go out like _that?_ I mean, I’m not judging but aren’t you a little young to be showing so much skin?” He just laughs it off, thinking she doesn’t know the half of it. 

He promises his counterpart that they’ll stay in contact; he’s interested to see how the relationship between him and his Rick develops, even offers to help him if he needs it. 

Eventually, Rick C-137 activates his portal gun so the G-45 pair can go. 

The warm air engulfs them as they find themselves on the far side of Miami Beach. Since it’s a morning on a weekday, they mostly have the area to themselves. 

Rick takes his pink jacket off and spreads it on the sand so they can sit down. 

“What do we do now? I’m kind of scared of going back.” Morty asks, watching the waves rolling to the shore. 

“What do you mean?”

“What if things go back to the way they were before, and you just go back to being fucked up?

Rick turns to cup Morty’s face in hands, eyes genuine when they look at each other. 

“No Morty, that’s not going to happen. Because, you should know–I love you. A–and I love you too much to allow that shit anymore.”

“You do?” Morty’s giving him a lopsided smile, expression hopeful.

“Hell yeah Morty, why do you think I got so fucked up in the first place? I’ve never actually been _in love_ , and couldn’t handle really feeling it for a while there. But listen, I’m going to do everything I can so we can make it work. And I can prove it to you–when I was stuck in that time loop, one of the things I did to try and break it was something I think you’ll really like. Look…”

Rick tugs his pants down, revealing a tattoo on his rear that matches Morty’s, but there’s an ‘M’ inside the circle instead of an ‘R’.

“Rick!” Morty blurts out, covering his mouth with his hand in elated disbelief. 

Rick pulls his pants back up, grinning.

“That’s right Morty. And there’s more: I was talking with the other Rick this morning, and I think with this interdimensional travel thing I can URPP lay off some of the dangerous shit I’ve been doing here on earth. I’m going to take some of my business off planet with his help so you’re safe. Oh, and I set aside some money so if you do ever decide to go to college, it’ll be there when you need it. I–I don’t want to stop you from getting an education, if that’s what you want Morty.”

“I think I have to finish high school first before I can even think about college Rick.”

“I know it’s not _perfect_ Morty, but we can make it happen, I know we can.” 

Morty nods, then grabs a fistfull of his shirt, leaning in so their lips touch.

Rick tastes vaguely like alcohol, but it blends with Morty’s own strawberry candy flavor like they were meant to be combined. When they break apart, Morty rests his head on Rick’s shoulder and the latter curves his arm around him. 

The mellow sound of the tide coupled with the far-off yelps of seagulls gliding aloft lull him into a light slumber. For once, he dreams of an infinite golden beach, and the weightless feeling of being utterly and effortlessly loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for reading, writing this was so much fun!
> 
> This fic is now part of a series, so be on the lookout for more Miami coming your way. 
> 
> See ya on the flip side!


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